


Thin Red Line

by zetsubooty



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Anal Fingering, Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Dancing, F/F, Face-Sitting, Frottage, Future Fic, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Russian Mafia, Semi-Public Sex, Trans Character, bc no one can stop me, drunk!Yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9809684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubooty/pseuds/zetsubooty
Summary: There are two things Viktor Nikiforov does not deal in: life and love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> did anyone need another mafia au? no. am I writing this anyway? hell yeah.
> 
> *waves hand at the warning* also there's drunk (but p explicitly consensual) sex here and there will likely be more

Viktor slips into the group like a bird touching down on water. He comes at them eyes first, then with a joke while waiting at the bar, and finally, lets the dance floor guide him delicately into their orbit so it seems like their idea to invite him in.

One leans in to yell in his ear, “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Viktor cringes behind his wink. “No, you’re mistaken. I’d remember eyeliner that perfect. You--”

Another pipes up. “No, yeah, I know! He looks like that guy… Nicky?? Like, he was some kind of ice skater way back…y’know, the gay kind with sequins…”

Viktor’s mouth gives the slightest twitch but his smile stays blithe. “Nope, not me. I fall on my ass the second I step on ice. Though I  _ have _ been known to wear sequins on occasion…”

Laughing all around, a few of them eyeing him like they’re wondering how serious he is. Then another of the women bats urgently at the first’s arm. “Ohhhh my god, did you hear Louisa’s dating some hockey player?”

“Is  _ that _ why she ditched girl’s night?”

Viktor lets their shouted gossip swirl around him, relieved.  _ Yakov’s going to yell at me to cut my hair again if I mention it. _

They’re nice ladies, welcoming and laughing and having a good time.

He still has a job to do.

He flirts outrageously with everyone, not letting anyone remember him singling out the target with his words. But eyes, a touch on the small of the back, lips parting on a flash of tongue,  _ that _ he reserves only for her. And under the spell of the mint and strawberry lights and the pounding music, he can see it taking hold.

She kisses him, which is not ideal. Certainly not for someone who still has such expensive taste in lip balm. But it makes things easier, makes breathing the suggestion in her ear seem natural, wanted.

She follows him down a back hall, both of them giggling like sneaking children, her expensive clutch flapping behind her on its long chain. Follows him out through a heavy door into the alleyway that smells like spring and rain over the piss and old beer. There’s already a couple entwined against the wall, but Viktor’s in luck: she’s titillated but not willing to stop here. She stumbles ahead of him around a corner before falling back against the concrete wall with  _ take me _ in every angle of her body.

“What’s with the gloves, anyway? You got some kind of OCD thing? My cousin has that, he’s--”

He doesn’t wait to hear more. One swift punch to the throat so she can’t scream, then he deftly scoops up the clutch before she can drop it and pulls her back against his shoulder with the fine chain looped around her neck.

Some people like to look in their eyes. Viktor has no stomach for it. Still, it must be very lonely, dying without a face to hate.

He’s a selfish man, he supposes.

There’s a strobe of light, then a rumble from above while he pulls her body into the shadow of a dumpster. And then, as he ambles out of the alleyway and lights up a smoke, the heavens open.

_ Perfect timing _ . He’s not above smugness as he fetches out his current work phone, still walking unhurriedly. He types the number from memory.

“What?”

“I’ve left the package for pickup. Alleyway next to La Tache.”

“About goddamn time!”

He sighs dramatically. “I’m an artist, Yakov, and art can’t be rushed.” He pulls on the cigarette while Yakov grinds his teeth. “Plus her daddy’s got her on lockdown. This is gonna hurt; there’ll be retaliation. Are these guys ready for it?”

“No one important is unsecured. Let him take his anger out. Anyway, Vitya, I need you to get your ass on a plane.”

“Aww, missed me that much?”

“Not in the least. But I’m going to need your abilities here.”

“Always happy to help!”

“Like hell you are. Just get over here.”

“Love you too!”

* * *

 

Guang-hong tugs nervously on his tie. He’s pretty sure suits still leave him looking like a grade schooler at some auntie’s wedding, though normally he wouldn’t care that much.

Normally, he’s not meeting an FBI agent.

He glances over at the Inspector again.  _ She _ looks perfectly at ease, as per usual, absently tapping a pen on the table that takes up most of the small conference room. The other members of their unit look a little bit on edge, at least. Except for Crispino, who always just looks resentful about being pulled into the office and away from his charge.

The Inspector leans back in her chair with a creak, crossing her legs. “The man must love to make an entrance.”

Just then, there’s a light knock on the door, and everyone, even the Inspector, sits up a little straighter.

The man who steps through the door is...utterly not what Guang-hong was expecting. For starters, he’s short, probably not a whole lot taller than himself. And then there’s the (somewhat worse-for-wear-looking) half-ponytail and undefined close-cropped beard. And the aggressively yellow tie.

_ He looks…nice. _

The Inspector rises to her feet, turning to offer a hand. The agent’s caught in the middle of a bow, then hurriedly transfers the file folders and notebook from under one arm to the other so he can shake her proffered hand.

“Inspector Babicheva. Do you prefer English, or is Japanese okay?”

“Special Agent Leo de la Iglesia, and Japanese is…okay. Sorry I was late, I, uh, got a little lost…”

The Inspector frowns. “Didn’t the station send a car?”

Iglesia smiles sheepishly. “I wanted to take transit. Gotta get a feel for the city, y’know?”

Her lips quirk up at the corner, then she breaks into a broad smile. “I like you. Welcome to the Kagoshima Organised Crime Unit. Have a seat beside Sergeant Ji here.”

He’d known exactly why the Inspector had him leave an extra seat in between them, but somehow, Guang-hong’s heart still thumps as the agent settles into the chair beside him with a friendly smile. He’s almost grateful when she nods at him to begin the briefing.

Most of it’s not new to anyone at the table, and in theory, Iglesia’s had time to look over the files Guang-hong had compiled. But still, best to be on the same page.

He takes a breath, glancing at the inspector. “The current issues at hand are these: in the past year since there was a transfer in the metropolitan Kozakura-ikka’s leadership, there have been attempts from other domestic gangs to move into the area, all leading to an escalation in inter- and intra-gang violence. Further, there are rumours that certain international interests are attempting to use the confusion to establish a foothold in the prefecture. This unit’s current major objective is to work with local constabulary to ensure public safety while seeking ways to check the current rise in gang activities.”

His gaze flicks to Iglesia.  _ I hope you understand that’s code for “we’re not here to eliminate them, we’re here to return things to the status quo.” _

The Inspector nods briefly. “Thank you, Sergeant. Hishikawa-kun, what’s the latest on the human trafficking situation?”

Guang-hong sinks back into his seat gratefully and starts taking shorthand notes on the others’ reports. He’s almost forgotten this is any different than a regular meeting by the time everyone’s tidying their papers and preparing to leave. Until he feels the Inspector’s powerful hand on his shoulder.

“Agent Iglesia--”

“Leo’s fine! Though I understand if you want to keep things formal…”

She smiles, cocking her head. “Leo, then. And you can call me Mila. This is Ji Guang-hong; he’s basically my deputy, secretary, and wife at this point. Total lifesaver. But while you’re here, he’s on loan to you, so depend on him for anything you need.”

“Pleased to meet you?” Smile frozen, Guang-hong accepts Iglesia’s (warm, firm but not aggressive) handshake.  _ When did she decide that?? When was she going to tell me that?? _ He can tell he’s blushing. Spectacularly.

The Inspector beams at them, clapping them both on the shoulder. “Good! Show Leo-kun to the office we’ve set up for him.” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves them, literally whistling jauntily with her hands in her pockets.

Guang-hong stares at her retreating back.  _ This isn’t hospitality, you just don’t want to have to deal with this either! _

He hears a soft chuckle, and realises abruptly that he’s very obviously pouting. Guang-hong whips back around, feeling heat return to his cheeks. But there’s only friendliness in Iglesia’s soft brown eyes.

Iglesia tips his head in the direction of the door. “She seems like an…interesting person to work under.”

Guang-hong relaxes fractionally. “She’s. A character.” He lifts his chin a little, meeting Iglesia’s eyes squarely. “But she’s a brilliant detective and an upstanding member of the force! She just…doesn’t like dealing with certain things.”

Iglesia laughs again, patting his arm. “Well, anyone can sympathise with that. How about you show me to whatever glorified cupboard they’ve cleared for me? Oh, and,” he’s already turning, and looks back over his shoulder, “feel free to call me Leo too. Is Guang-hong okay?”

All he can do is stare back at him and blush again.

Iglesia turns, rubbing the side of his neck. “Shoot, did I get the name order right? Sometimes people tell me them Western-style, so… Or...that’s not a Japanese name, is it…?”

“Guanghongisfine!” Eyes on the floor, he scurries ahead of Leo to lead him to the office.

* * *

 

Viktor leans one elbow on the bar, still nursing his beer as he surveys the room with a deceptive lethargy. An eddy near the door attracts his attention, but it’s just a bachelorette party. Viktor spares them a friendly smile as they stumble, giggling, to the bar; this place truly attracts all types.

When he glances back at the door, he perks up, though he doesn’t show it.

A handful of unmemorable goons being patted down by security, looking all the more stiff beside a pint-sized kid with ridiculous hair and an even more absurd grin. Shorty calls something inaudible over his shoulder, acknowledged by a nod from the tall woman sauntering in behind them. She fetches a small box out of the inner pocket of her sleek leather jacket, stubbing out her cigarette in it while making baleful eye contact with the bouncer.

And at her side, in a cheap suit with an ugly tie, positively dwarfed by his sister’s lanky leonine aura but looking no less dangerous, Viktor’s target.

Viktor takes a quick swig of beer.  _ Goddamnithescute. I really need to talk to Yakov about better quality photos so I can brace myself. _ Nonchalant, he lets his gaze pass on to the slowly filling dance floor.

The party takes up station in one of the plush booths near the back. Not long after, they’re joined by a bristly-looking middle-aged man with his own solitary and wary-looking muscle.

Viktor wishes he could eavesdrop; never hurts to pick up the opposition’s movements. Whatever deal they’re negotiating, it’s obviously making Katsuki the younger nervous, if his death grip on highball #2 is anything to go by.

Katsuki looks up, eyes hidden briefly in the glare off his glasses. And then fixing directly on Viktor.

Not missing a beat, Viktor brings his bottle to his lips, quirking an eyebrow before letting his gaze slide away.  _ Well, that’s a plausible enough reason to be staring. And not inaccurate. _ He’s sorely tempted to see what effect his small gesture had, but he’s got at least some discipline and subtlety.

“T’as d’beaux yeux, tu sais?”

Viktor turns with a genuine smile. “Chris! That was terrible.”

Chris drapes himself elegantly on the barstool beside him, facing out over the crowd with a satisfied smile. “First time you show your face, and you smell like you’re here on business. You’re not planning on making a mess in my little club, are you?”

Viktor sips his beer. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m simply here to take in the sights.”

“Excellent.” Without any apparent input from Chris, the bartender slides a martini glass across the bar at his elbow; Chris smiles over his shoulder, thanking her in Japanese.

“How’s business?”

“Well enough.” Chris sips his drink, then grimaces, jerking his chin in the direction of the bachelorette. They’ve been joined by a tallish foreigner with an obnoxiously loud laugh; Viktor finds he instantly dislikes him. “Occasional irritations, and I don’t like when Her Majesty back there decides to hold court here, but… It keeps things from getting dull.”

“As if things would ever be dull with you around.”

Chris gives him an indulgent smile. “Flatterer.  _ You’re _ the one that livens things up." His expression turns more fond. "I've missed you, since we moved. He loves it here, not that he's ever around, but... The least you could've done is come visit me."

“Sorry, I’ve been a bit of a homebody lately.”

Chris snorts. “That’s a bald-faced lie. And bad for you besides. Find yourself another puppy already and take me along for walks.” He waves his drink at the dancefloor, cocking an eyebrow at Viktor. “Perhaps you’ll find one to your liking here.”

“Chris, you know I prefer off-leash.” It takes some of the sting out of Chris’s words, lets Viktor laugh it off. And drags his thoughts back to the man he’s here for tonight. Smoothly, he turns, flagging down another bartender, a stockily-built young man in a close-fitting band tee who appears to have a light case of resting bitch face.. “I’ll have whatever fruity monstrosity he’s having.”

Chris _tsks_. "You should be supporting the local business. I'm sure your old man's eager to get his fingers in it." He flings a glance over his shoulder. "Give him some of the kokuto. On me." The bartender nods curtly, leaving Viktor to glance over at the table.

Katsuki the elder leans back against the booth, arms spread on the low back and hands dangling, staring at the ceiling like the tableau she’s part of is of no interest. Her brother outlines some point with his hands on the table, leaning just enough to communicate ease without seeming entreating.

_ More confident now he’s hit an appropriate blood-alcohol level? Or just when he’s calling the shots? _ Viktor can’t help wishing he had more time to observe this man; he seems like an enigma one could still be puzzling out months later.

The other bartender is trying to catch Chris's attention; he acknowledges her and sets his hand on Viktor’s forearm. “But seriously, I don't know what hole Yakov's put you up in, but we've got a guest bedroom if you want it. And I had better see more of you this time before you melt away.”

Viktor smiles over at him. “Of course.”

With a wave, Chris takes his leave. "Loving the ponytail, by the way. Adorable. Might wanna rethink it before it starts looking skeezy."

Viktor waves him off with a smile. He shifts restlessly, then pushes away from the bar himself.  _ Can’t lurk too obviously. _ Sipping his (sweet and a little nutty) shochu, he loses himself in the growing crowd.

The next time he gets a good look at Katsuki, he’s moved to the bar not far from where Viktor had loitered earlier. Shorty hovers at his elbow talking animatedly, though Katsuki appears to be giving monosyllabic answers, clearly caught in his own thoughts and the glass in his hands. One of the other underlings stops to say something to Shorty; he straightens like a toy soldier, nodding crisply with his eyes wide. Viktor snickers into the back of his hand. Then sobers. Shorty’s clearly being left behind while the rest of the group move out.

_ A babysitter. Damn. _

Viktor switches gears, letting himself be carried on the crowd to a better vantage point. If the kid’s armed, it’s with something small or subtle. Unconsciously, Viktor fingers his own silk tie; subtle doesn’t mean safe. Sighing heavily, he resigns himself to observing tonight. At least in that case, he can probably allow himself one or two more little drinks.

He threads his way through the crowd, coming at the bar a little ways off from the target. Band Tee takes his order with something like a smile. Viktor lets his eyes slide off to the left, off to where Katsuki’s sitting--

_ Oh shit. _

Viktor snaps his eyes from the lurching approach of his target back to Band Tee’s back, willing him to pour the drink at superhuman speed. If he just walks off without it, it’ll look suspicious, but--

“ _ You. _ ”

_ Too late. Sorry, Yakov. _

“ _ You’re _ Viktor Nikiforov.”

_Why do you look_ pissed _about it?_ "Who? I think you must be confusi--"

"Bull. I spent  _way_ too much time starin' at you not to recognise you."

Viktor waves his hands placatingly. "You got me!"  Still, this is better than he could’ve hoped; Viktor drops a bill on the bar and turns, falling into the affable smile that still comes easy as breathing. “So you're a fan?” Up close, it’s easier to see past the glasses to Katsuki's eyes and the beautiful dark brows framing them.

“Yes,” Katsuki says, jabbing an accusatory finger against his chest. It sparks something like adrenaline through Viktor, something headier than the alcohol muddying his blood.

Shorty’s followed Katsuki part of the way around the bar, watching them curiously. He stops short, then skitters back to recover Katsuki’s discarded suit jacket.

“What’s your name?” He watches Shorty out of the corner of his eye, but he's just observing, not threatening yet.

“Katsuki Yuuri. You’re,” another jab, “I used to idolise you, back when I skated. When  _ you _ skated. Why don’t you skate anymore?”

Viktor can’t help the pang in his chest; he might’ve left that world far behind but it’s still close in his heart. He wracks his brain for any recollection of the name, but comes up blank.  _ Too bad. _ “You used to skate too? That’s--”

“You wanna dance?”

Those words aren’t usually voiced like a threat. Viktor blinks, grabbing blindly for his glass and nearly knocking it over. “Yes??” Silently apologising to the shochu for not appreciating it properly, he knocks back the whole thing in one large gulp and slaps the glass back down on the bar.

_ If I’m gonna make mistakes tonight, I might as well go all in. Yakov should pull me off this anyway. _

Katsuki sways back, eyelids fluttering like he hadn’t expected a positive response. Looking faintly terrified, he swings around and rolls his way towards the dancefloor. Viktor follows, bemused.

Viktor’s seen their type of people dancing often enough, he’s not expecting much. Not getting stepped on or worse is all he’s hoping for.

He’s not expecting Yuuri Katsuki to move like a god.

There’s nothing overtly erotic about it, just a decisive grace to his movements that has Viktor instantly spellbound. The floor’s crowded, hot, close, and his only lament is that he can’t fully appreciate the view; he certainly has no complaints about being forced into Katsuki’s space. The bass beat and the liquor thrum in his head, his chest, down to the tips of his fingers and he has absolutely no compunctions admitting to himself how much he wants to  _ touch _ . Press his hands into the thickness of Katsuki’s waist, drop them to his hips to feel them move, pull him tight against himself so he can feel the music in every inch of his body.

Viktor’s breath rushes out heavily, his eyes fixed on Katsuki’s. _ Maybe there’s still a way to salvage something from this. _ He knows goddamn well he’s only trying to justify doing what he wants, and he’ll surely get an earful about it in the morning. But any fucks he gave are quickly evaporating.

With something like a smirk, Viktor raises his arm in an arc over his head and lets it fall, hand grazing Yuuri’s cheek.

Yuuri flinches like he’s been shocked, eyes going wide.

_ Ah, too forward… _

Yuuri’s hand closes over his own, grip tight and firmer than he’d expected. He drags it down his side, past his hip, jerking Viktor after it.

He’s only thrown for a heartbeat. Viktor deftly slips his arm around Yuuri’s back. He’s already as sweaty as Viktor feels and without thinking, he curls his fingers in the damp fabric. Momentum keeps them spinning slowly, two bodies in motion caught in each others’ gravity. Yuuri drags a hand up, fingers pressing into Viktor’s nape, up to the base of his skull to push into his gathered hair before slipping away.

Viktor wants them back. But as much as that, he wants to see what Yuuri will do next, follow the swing of the music in him with his eyes and his hips. He spreads his hand on the small of Yuuri’s back, looking down at the negative space of the dance floor between them, a black rift that threatens, promises to close.

He’s never felt he was very good at this, dancing like he wasn’t performing. But maybe the problem was he never had the right audience. His gaze travels up Yuuri’s torso to his face, but Yuuri’s eyes are closed.

_ Who are  _ you _ performing for? Me? The other dancers? Some lover? Yourself? _

Viktor narrows his eyes, slipping his hand off Yuuri’s back and bringing it up to graze fingertips under his chin. Yuuri rolls his head up obligingly, making gorgeous lines of his neck as he drops one shoulder. And then opens his eyes in a look so full of finely harnessed lust that Viktor whistles softly under his breath. He drops his hand to Yuuri’s shoulder, heel of his palm pressing into the softness of his chest. But Yuuri steps into a tight turn, pulling away from his touch with his lashes low.

Viktor stares at the shadow of one ear for a second before letting his gaze fall to Yuuri’s round ass. The pants are doing nothing for it, but really, it doesn’t need any help.

_You’re either a little shy or a terrible tease._ _Either way, I can work with it._

With a small smile, he turns as well, letting his body graze Yuuri’s back as he dips low and then coming up with one hand trailing his thigh to his hip. He can feel the shift of Yuuri’s weight, feel him looking curiously. With a press of his fingers, he tugs him around, spinning so they’re facing each other again.

With the track fading into the heavier beat of a new song, Yuuri stares at him wide-eyed, still moving absently. Abruptly, he turns on his heel.

“I’m gonna get another drink.”

_ Excuse me? _ Viktor’s glad he controls his expression because Yuuri glances back the next second.

“...You want anything?”

Viktor bites his tongue and just nods enthusiastically.

The night is a blur of lights catching on the bottoms of shot glasses and in Yuuri’s eyes and on the faint sheen of sweat that disappears under his shirt collar.  The tie disappears somewhere, and Viktor doesn’t mourn its loss, certainly not with the top half of Yuuri’s shirt gaping open and revealing tantalising shadows. He’s only sorry that  _ he  _ doesn’t have an attendant coatrack. Every now and then, he catches sight of the poor kid watching from the edge of the crowd and looking thoroughly awed and scandalised.

He smirks, looking back down at Yuuri in time to catch another of those indecent looks. Only for a beat before Yuuri’s curling an arm around his neck and pulling him down. Viktor’s heart skips but Yuuri’s cheek slides over his own till his lips are near his ear.

“I want…I want your autograph…”

Viktor curls an arm around Yuuri’s waist, tucking his face in close to speak almost against Yuuri’s skin. “I want your dick.”

He can feel the shock of it through Yuuri’s body. But whether he’s done playing his game or just has enough alcohol in him to overwhelm the nerves, this time, he doesn’t pull away. “Mine first.”

Viktor can’t quite decide whether to laugh or drop to his knees right here.

Before he can decide, Yuuri turns with a sinuous curve of his hips. This time, it’s not fleeing, this time, Yuuri sets his hand on Viktor’s hip, leaning back against him.

“Just kidding.”

_ About which part, exactly?? _

Viktor grabs him around the waist, pulling him back more firmly until he’s certain there’s no doubt of his own sincerity. Lights scatter over them, showing him the corner of Yuuri’s smirk and the red of his ear. Viktor noses against it, letting his breath huff out against thin skin.

Yuuri cants his hips back, still in time with the music though god knows what they’re doing barely constitutes dancing anymore. Viktor tucks his chin on his shoulder, pressing their cheeks together, eyes falling shut so he’s left only with the pulse of the music and his fingers skimming out along Yuuri’s outflung arm to curl around his wrist. Yuuri’s ass is squeezed tight against his crotch and it’s all he can do not to overtly grind against him, his other hand stealing hungrily along the top of his slacks and under the untucked front of his shirt. He sucks in a shaky inhale, spreading his palm on the softness of Yuuri’s stomach, fingers curling to feel the pull and crunch of his obliques. Insistently, he pulls Yuuri’s hand up to splay on the back of his neck.

Yuuri obligingly strokes a thumb over his skin once. Then reaches up and digs his fingers into his hair between his scalp and the elastic holding it up and pulls.

It’s graceless and hurts a little and part of him’s thinking that now he’ll have that stupid kink in his hair from having it up so long but most of him is reeling. Viktor turns against Yuuri’s cheek with a sharp exhale, feeling the warm weight of his hair settle around his shoulders and Yuuri’s hand still caught in it and dragging it down. And then Yuuri turning, turning with their hips still tight together and fuck, he can feel that he’s part-hard, those pants are hiding  _ nothing _ and Yuuri’s lips are on his chin and Viktor is in uncontrolled free fall as he tilts his head down to capture his lips.

He tastes like a blur of sweetness and alcohol and fire and before Viktor’s thought it through completely he’s propelling them out of the crowd, out to crash against a wall and Yuuri’s knee between his own and his hand fisted in the back of Viktor’s shirt and pulling it up, up, out of his pants. This is no polite overture, this is slash and burn, this is grabbing something perfect before it melts into smoke.

Yuuri’s lips are pliant and he chases after Viktor when he pulls away and how can he do anything but satisfy that honest plea? Viktor drags his hands up Yuuri’s stomach to his chest, working the remaining buttons open before eagerly sliding under the fabric to brush over nipples.  Yuuri’s got one hand buried in his hair again, the other pressing teasing fingers against his bare skin just above his ass. Viktor arches his back encouragingly for a second but he’s more intent on feeling Yuuri rubbing against his hip, drinking in the tiny sounds he can barely hear under the pound of the music.

Viktor curves down, lips smearing over Yuuri’s pec until he finds his nipple, luxuriating in the way it ripples through Yuuri’s body. Impossible to grind against him like this but instead he can get his hand on his cock. Yuuri’s fingers go from heavy caress to claws in an instant, pulling his shirt up his back.

_ So sensitive!  _ A smile tugs at the corner of his lips even as he scrapes teeth over Yuuri’s skin.  _ Or...maybe I’ve overestimated… _ Viktor straightens, delicately cupping Yuuri’s face until he opens his eyes.

“Come with me?”

Yuuri looks dazed and a little overwhelmed but he tugs on Viktor with certainty. “Yeah.”

He's glad he'd glanced over the building plans. Hallways off of hallways and half a flight up before he’s leaning on a royal blue door and trying the knob hopefully.  _ Chris, you really ought to keep these rooms better secured, you never know what people might get up to in them--oh. _

“It’s locked.”  _ Deserted back hallway works just as well, I suppose. _

“Outta the way.” Not waiting, Yuuri shoulders him over, crouching down. He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket, though Viktor doubts it’s a proper key he’s carefully wriggling into the deadbolt. All things considered, it shouldn’t surprise or impress him, but he finds himself deeply charmed. Especially when there’s a telltale  _ thock _ and Yuuri looks up at him with a broad grin. Biting his lips in an eager smile, Viktor gropes for the handle, and then they’re swinging into the drapery of darkness.

Viktor slaps around for a lightswitch, bathing them in the smoky light of a tastefully small chandelier hanging over the single circular table. Yuuri stumbles back from him, smacking into the table; Viktor closes the distance quickly, eager to get his hands back on him. And then stops, arrested by what clothes and haphazard lighting had hidden from view.

Twisting out from under the open collar of Yuuri’s shirt are twin silky-looking coils, black-scaled with flashes of red belly as they disappear under his arms. Another loop comes over his right side, disappearing into his pants and leaving Viktor eager to trace its descent into the frothy peaks of the waves that crash either side of Yuuri’s hips.

He’s never particularly cared either way about tattoos before so maybe it’s the alcohol and his dick talking, but the effect here is absolutely breathtaking.

Viktor drags his gaze back up to Yuuri’s face. He’s regarding him coolly, looking a hell of a lot more sober than he had a second ago. But Viktor’s far too impatient to give much thought to how he  _ ought _ to react, so he just responds honestly, slowly closing the distance between them and reaching out to brush fingertips over the ink on Yuuri’s chest.

“Beautiful.” He rakes his eyes up Yuuri’s torso to his face, making it clear he’s not just talking about the tattoos. To his delight, Yuuri flushes a rather spectacular shade of red.

And then grabs Viktor’s tie, yanking him down so he can kiss him.

Viktor groans, grabbing for him, then changes tack to flail his way out of his jacket. As soon as his hands are free, he grabs Yuuri’s ass, pulling him off the edge of the table so they can fit their bodies together once again. Yuuri shifts his grip from his tie to the top buttons of Viktor’s shirt, his lips sliding over the corner of Viktor’s mouth and then away as he looks down at his fingers. Reluctantly, Viktor lets go of Yuuri’s ass to haul the front of his shirt free from his pants and start undoing it from the bottom up. When their hands meet over his solar plexus, he doesn’t bother shrugging out of it, just reaches down to grab one of Yuuri’s thighs and hike it up on his hip, rolling into him and making them both pant heavily.

Yuuri still has a grip on his tie somehow, pulling it across his throat as he clenches a hand in the loosened fabric over his shoulder. There’s a twist of irony in it but it’s quickly erased by the fire of Yuuri’s lips down the side of his neck to his collarbone. Viktor digs his fingers into the plushness of Yuuri’s thigh, fucking against him and panting into his hair. With his free hand, he fumbles with Yuuri’s fly. He can already feel that delicious build but he’s not ready for this to be over yet, not by a long shot.

Abruptly, he drops to his knees, yanking Yuuri’s slacks down and revealing more of the ocean splashed over his thighs. Viktor nuzzles against the front of Yuuri’s boxer-briefs hungrily, then tips his head back to give him a heavy-lidded stare.

“You got a condom?”

Another gorgeous flush, then Yuuri shakes his head. “This...this wasn’t exactly how I envisioned my night turning out…”

“Damnit.” Viktor smacks his forehead against Yuuri’s hip. It turns into a kiss, heavy and impatient and his hand stealing up to wrap around Yuuri’s cock through his underwear. Again and again, kissing his way up until he feels skin and then opening his mouth to suck his own more unrefined mark beside the others. He rubs up and down the length of Yuuri’s cock with his palm, his whole body moving with it and spoiling his attempt to slow himself down with each time his dick slides against the fabric of his pants. He dots more kisses over Yuuri’s belly and then back down to cross over the coil of ink and take the waistband of his underwear in his teeth. Looking up to make sure he’s got Yuuri’s eyes on him, he stretches the fabric down, free hand reaching around to tug it over that round ass. Yuuri fucks against his palm, one hand braced on the table and the other coming up to card through Viktor’s hair, pushing it back from his face. Viktor holds his eyes for a second longer, slowly kneading his ass, then bites down over the crest of a wave.

Yuuri kicks his knee and he’s mystified until he realises he’s wriggling out of his pants and shoes. As soon as he notices, there’s a light tug on his hair. Viktor tosses his head back with a rough pant, wanting more, but Yuuri’s very obviously trying to draw him up and Viktor is all too willing to rise, wrestling open his own fly. Yuuri lifts himself onto the table fully, legs spread so invitingly and fingers hooked on the waistband of Viktor’s underwear and god _ damn _ he’s glad he was wearing nice ones, not that he would ever own any that aren’t.

Yuuri only gropes him through them once, then pulls him insistently in, curling his calves around the back of Viktor’s thighs. He’s just as glorious to fuck against as Viktor could’ve imagined, and each thrust has him squeezing his legs around him, hips canting up to meet Viktor’s. Viktor tucks his face into the curve of Yuuri’s neck, then arches back to encourage Yuuri’s sucking kisses along his collarbone, each one catching a tiny hitch in his breath. He’s ratcheting towards orgasm fast and god, he doesn’t want this to end but Yuuri’s mouth and hips are undoing him so beautifully and his hands stealing down between them and the next thing he knows there’s bare skin against the flushed swollen length of his cock.

Viktor makes a tight noise, leaning his forehead against Yuuri’s shoulder so he can watch his dick slide through his fist. Yuuri gathers his hair off his neck, pulling it to cascade down one side, then kisses along his hairline, up to his ear.

“Viktor.”

His own name shouldn’t have such an effect, not something so simple as lips closing petal-soft on his earlobe. And yet he’s swallowing a stuttered cry, watching thin ropes of come streak Yuuri’s stomach as he clutches at his shoulder and hip.

At least he can console himself with how utterly wrecked Yuuri looks when he finally lifts his head.

Viktor kisses him between quick panted breaths, his jaw, his chin, over and over and then up to catch his lips so sweetly. Yuuri’s hands stray to his hips, tugging him forward insistently, but Viktor's never been one to slow down here and he has other ideas. He pulls back with a gasp, wedging his fingers under the waistband of Yuuri’s underwear, pulling. Yuuri leans back on his hands, lifting his hips and then settling back so Viktor can pull them down his legs to drop to the floor. Eyes on Yuuri’s, he urges him more solidly on the table, then wriggles out of his own pants and underwear before clambering on top of Yuuri.

This is more intoxicating than all the liquor in the world, feeling Yuuri arch hungrily under him when he straddles his hips, drinking in the veneration on his face. Viktor’s not so artless that he’s not highly conscious of the visual he’s presenting, backlit by the chandelier with his hair and the loose tails of his black tie and white shirt hanging down as he leans over Yuuri. Then again, he’s overcome himself: the beautiful contrast of dark ink against creamy skin still smeared with his own come, the erratic rise and fall of Yuuri’s chest, the way his pupils are blown wide, the flash of tongue as he licks his lips.

Viktor drapes down until he can brush his lips over Yuuri’s, tilting his hips back to feel the length of Yuuri’s dick against his ass. Yuuri smoothes one hand over his cheek and twines it in his hair, the other curling around Viktor’s back under his shirt. His hips curve up, his dick sliding against the cleft of Viktor’s ass so deliciously that Viktor shifts his weight back to press hard against him. Yuuri pushes up on one hand, kissing his chest delicately.

Viktor wraps his arms loosely around Yuuri’s shoulders, the rock of his hips measured and slow. “I’m impressed. I’d’ve figured you’d blow your load the second I touched you like most fans.”

Yuuri snorts inelegantly, muttering something under his breath; Viktor’s pretty sure he catches the words ‘full of yourself’. It’s fair, but he’s still feeling a little put out when Yuuri catches his eyes in a direct stare. “Don’t underestimate me.”

It sends a shiver down his spine, a thread of fear twined in with the lust. He smooths Yuuri’s hair back, eyelids drooping low. “Is that a challenge?”

“Er, not really…” A flash of sweet goofiness underneath the hard shell.

Viktor claps his hands. “No, this is perfect! Let’s make a bet: if you can last, say...another ten minutes, I will go and get us some goddamn condoms. But if I make you come first,  _ you  _ have to go.”

Yuuri gives him a lightly concerned look. “What are you gonna do, time it?”

Viktor breaks into a grin before scrambling off the table, digging his phone out of his pocket. He sets the timer, then brandishes it at Yuuri. “See? Very scientific.”

“I...okay?” Yuuri looks decidedly bemused as Viktor climbs back on the table.

Viktor hits the start button, then tosses the phone on the booth seat before glancing back at Yuuri with his eyelids lowered but challenge in his gaze. “I won’t lose, though.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen spectacularly, his dick giving a satisfying twitch. And then his expression turns fierce, the sort of look that could burn a man to a crisp, were he not well-fortified. “I’m not losing either.”

Viktor sinks down on one elbow, slipping the other hand down between Yuuri’s silky thighs. “Good luck with that, little piggy.”

Yuuri blinks at him before smiling politely. “If that’s your idea of dirty talk, then please refrain.”

Viktor can’t help a snort of laughter. “Don’t worry. I intend for my mouth to be busy with other things.” He dips in, kissing under Yuuri’s jaw aggressively so he’ll tip his head back, making him inhale sharply as Viktor lazily rubs his dick.

He has things in mind, certainly, but there’s always time just to enjoy another’s body, kissing Yuuri’s neck and shoulders while he gropes his thighs and what he can reach of his ass. What it would be like to sink down between his legs, or turn him on his front and press him into a mattress with that ass against his hips… Viktor inhales a shaky breath of his own; there’s always the possibility one’s overselling oneself with proposing a round two, but this time, he has absolute confidence he’ll be ready to go again.

_ Even just thinking about it… _ Viktor hooks one leg over Yuuri’s, pulling himself up against his hip, not too tight while he’s still over-sensitised.  _ But I want you to feel every pump of blood through there. _ He squeezes Yuuri’s dick lightly, stroking it once, then tugs up on his other knee, letting his palm smooth down the back of his leg to grab his ass. Then skim his cleft with his fingertips.

“This okay?”

Yuuri’s eyes flicker open, doubtfulness in them. “Er…we don’t…”

“I’ll go slow.”

Yuuri nods. “This feels like cheating.” Regardless of his grousing, Yuuri shifts his hips, drawing his bent leg closer.

“Your own fault for not setting rules!” Viktor smiles out, then parts his lips to slick his fingers against his tongue before sliding them down to part Yuuri. Viktor exhales heavily, looking down even though all he can really see is Yuuri’s erection curving up towards his stomach and his own wrist. Gently, gently, he brings his middle finger to push against his hole.

Yuuri makes a tight noise, and Viktor looks up immediately. But it’s obvious that it wasn’t a noise of discomfort. Viktor kisses his throat, then murmurs against his skin, “You said you were a fan. Did you ever think about this?” Steady, steady, in to the first knuckle, each twitch of Yuuri’s muscles deliciously obvious. “Touch yourself, looking at some magazine spread? I remember some of the shoots I did were pretty racy…” Yuuri’s breath hitches, his hips rocking back almost imperceptibly. “Did you like those ones? Or did you like me better all sweet and covered up?”

“I thought you…were going to stop talking…”

“Changed my mind.” Viktor pulls his finger out a little way, then drives a bit deeper, eliciting a beautiful gasp. “Did you imagine bending me over the foot of your bed? Or fucking my mouth?” He trails kisses down Yuuri’s chest, mouthing his nipple lightly. “Or was it like this? Have you been rolling around in bed, ramming yourself with silicone, imagining it was the real thing?” He sucks on Yuuri’s nipple, drawing back enough to admire its rosy hue against the starker colours of the ink, then dips in again to rasp his tongue over it. “What kind of kinky things must you have imagined doing to me?”

“Nothing…”

Viktor glances up, pouting, but he’s immediately arrested by the look on Yuuri’s flushed face. “Oh?”

“I wasn’t… I didn’t…” Yuuri’s face squinches up adorably for a second. “Just…thought about sucking you off in some of your costumes… Kneeling on the ice in front of you…”

Viktor eyes him with frank interest, rocking his hand up so that the heel of his palm pushes against Yuuri’s balls and the base of his dick. “Keep going,” he whispers, then scrapes his teeth down Yuuri’s pec to take his nipple in again.

“Or… I used to have this one… I’m watching you live, and… I’m touching myself through my pants, but somehow only you can see. And you like it, you’re getting off on it, even though you keep skating. No matter where you are, you don’t take your eyes off me, so it’s like…” Yuuri’s voice is dwindling to a breathy whisper, his hips squirming back with every thrust of Viktor’s finger. “It’s like I’m performing for you the whole time you’re performing for me…”

“Wow…” Viktor licks his lips, glancing down the length of their bodies. “Why don’t you,” he drags his hand up again, until his finger’s almost free, “perform like that for me now?”

When he glances up, Yuuri’s eyes are on him, dreamy and hungry all at once. His arm had been curled across his stomach, but he reaches up, licking his palm with a delightfully lewd noise, then slips it down to his cock.

Judging by his unhesitant strokes, Yuuri has all but forgotten the wager, and Viktor’s not about to remind him with a betraying flick of his eyes to his phone. As if he could look away from Yuuri’s dick pushing through his fist, stuttering with each twitch of his hips. Each little jerk that makes Viktor acutely aware that round two will need to happen  _ very _ soon; he’s not even really hard yet, but still can’t help tensing his thigh, rubbing his dick against Yuuri’s skin.

Viktor pushes himself up higher, curling his finger up as he slides it back in. No more friction, he stays buried deep, just dipping his finger forward again and again to rub over Yuuri’s prostate. Yuuri arches hard against the table, his free hand snaking up to grab the edge above his head as he pumps his dick. His breath comes in disjointed little gasps, ending on a broken cry that seems to reach right down and grab Viktor somewhere deep and aching. He exhales heavily, watching Yuuri’s come dot his stomach over the dried smears of his own climax, feeling him clench over and over around his finger.

“Beautiful…” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss just under Yuuri’s sternum, then rests his head there, watching Yuuri’s dick twitch until it lies quiet. He withdraws his hand, curling it on Yuuri’s opposite hip, close to where Yuuri’s hand rests.

The near-silence of two people catching their breath is broken by the tinny sound of a dog barking.

Viktor shoves himself up, grinning impishly. “I won!” He twists to the side to catch up his phone and silence it.

“ _ That’s _ … your timer sound…?”

“Yep.” He can’t help feeling a  _ little _ defensive.

Yuuri quirks a smile. “It’s cute.”

Viktor stares down at him over his shoulder for a second, then rolls back, dropping his head to Yuuri’s chest again.

_ You’re the one that’s being cute and it’s! Not! Fair! How fucking  _ dare _ you! _

When the seconds stretch into minutes, Yuuri gently pats his shoulder. “Hey…you still want me to go?”

For a moment, Viktor’s irked.  _ Go? Who said you could go anyw--oh. _ He turns his head, squishing his nose against Yuuri’s skin. “Yes. Very definitely yes.” He pushes himself up, sliding down off the table and then reaching for Yuuri’s hands to help him down. As soon as he’s steady, Viktor leans in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Come back quickly though.”

When he draws back, Yuuri’s blushing again, looking at him wonderingly.

Viktor smiles. Then reaches around him to give him a shove towards their discarded clothes. “And bring me something to clean my hand.”

Viktor watches him fumble quickly into his pants and shoes and attempt to do up his shirt. The overall impression still screams I Just Got Laid, but he doesn’t think anyone will complain. Yuuri pokes his nose out the door, then looks back over his shoulder.

“Back in a minute.” Viktor gives him a cheeky wave and then he’s gone.

Left alone, Viktor flops back on the table. Then groans.  _ Why did we fuck on the hard thing? I am  _ way _ too old for that. _ He starts to roll off the edge, thinks better of it, and slips back to the floor. Groping around, he finds…Yuuri’s underwear. Viktor snorts inelegantly, quickly finding his own and slipping into them. He slides onto the plush seat, sending a silent apology to Chris, wherever he is. Though it’s probably nowhere near the most scandalous or questionably sanitary thing that’s happened on this table.

Viktor suddenly wonders whether there’s CCTV in the room. He decides ignorance is bliss.

He’s been lounging on his side, playing a mindless bubble popping game happily enough when he notices his eyes start to droop. It occurs to him suddenly that it has been an awful long time since Yuuri left and also he’s getting very chilly. Frowning to himself, he wriggles back to the floor and pulls on his pants, doing up his shirt a  _ bit _ more tidily than Yuuri had. He’s examining his jacket, debating whether it would make him seem eager to leave (which, honestly, with the shine and the buzz of alcohol wearing off, he kind of is) when the door cracks open.

Viktor looks up, smiling more broadly than he’d expected, to see…Chris.

Normally, he’d be one of his favourite people to be surprised by. Right now, Viktor can’t help pulling an extremely disappointed face.

Chris leans back against the door, closing it, and crosses his arms over his chest, eyes skimming down to Viktor’s lack of shoes. “Making yourself quite at home, I see.” He breaks into a fond smile, raising one eyebrow. “The Japanese thing about taking your shoes off before you come inside doesn’t really apply here.”

“Chris…” Viktor flaps his suit jacket; it’s not what he’d intended, but Chris takes it from him, holding it up so he can slip his arms in. “Did I just get stood up?”

“Well, I’d say you got pretty thoroughly stood down first, so I don’t see why you’re complaining.”

Viktor pulls a face; that probably answers the question about CCTV. He  _ hopes _ he can trust Chris to erase the files.

“...But if you’re asking if your boozy Cinderella is still in the building, then no. He encountered his tiny fairy godbrother and left.”

It shouldn’t be possible, but Viktor at least  _ tries _ to look more sulky and forlorn. “Chriiiiiiiiis…”

“Don’t blame me! That’s what you get for drunken backroom hookups.”

“Don’t talk like you’re in any position to judge,” Viktor rejoins a little testily, wavering while he pulls on his shoes. The buzz is  _ definitely _ wearing off. Clearly, the solution is more alcohol.

“I’m  _ not _ , I’m simply pointing out that if you make your stiff and ill-advised bed, you’re going to have to lie in it.”

Viktor squints at him, trying to decide whether Chris is referring to the room or to Yuuri. He decides he doesn’t presently care. “Well, thank you for your advice. I’m going to go get fantastically drunk. Again.”

He takes a step towards the door, but Chris stops him with a hand on his shoulder. And hands him a rumpled pair of boxer-briefs. “Your glass slipper, Prince Charming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> google search whats the opposite of slowburn
> 
> im not sayin yuuri's not a happy drunk im just also sayin he looks ready to Fite the camera in a few of those pics and he challenged a small angry cat to a dance battle
> 
> also who tf let guang-hong and leo anywhere near law enforcement they are Gentle Babies
> 
> the Kozakura-ikka are Kagoshima prefecture's yakuza family. They're somewhat unusual, apparently, in that they keep their business strictly local and don't take kindly to intrusions by other gangs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for brief derogatory language about sex workers

“...and can you put an extra shot in there for me?” Viktor winks at the girl on cash. “Had a rough night.”

“You look it. That’ll be fifty yen extra,” she answers blandly, and if Viktor had any shame he’d probably blush. She switches back to Japanese, and while he doesn’t understand the words, he understands the impatient tone well enough.

He’s left drifting over to the bar, hyper-conscious of the string of subsurface stains left on his skin by Yuuri’s teeth and lips. He rubs his gloved fingers over his mouth as he leans back against the counter

_That was good. Like, standing ovation-, crowd screaming encore-good. I think? Might need a second non-pissed drunk evaluation. Perhaps a third._

Now, heat creeps across his cheeks at the thought of the morning- or at least two am-after that could have been. _When did I become so easily swept off my feet?_ That, at least, brings a smile back to his face as he snaps the lid down on his cup. The idea that he would fall for anyone, especially some drunk impulse lay… Viktor gives his head a little shake. Target. He’s a target.

_I was supposed to be back on a plane by now._

He’s on the steps to the station when his work phone rings.

Viktor takes one look at the string of numbers and doubles back to the street, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd behind his sunglasses. “Yakov! Hiii!”

“You were supposed to _kill_ him, not bump uglies with him, you harebrained--”

Viktor barely misses a beat. “I’m out and about, so you might want to keep the volume down.” Unlikely anyone understands Russian, but people _will_ remember the foreigner with his phone screaming blue murder at him. “Also please never call it that ever again. Or talk about sex at all.”

“I am going to put your head on a goddamn _spike_.”

“No, you’re not. My lovely head is far too useful.” Yakov grates out a sound like he’s having a coronary; Viktor relents a little. “I didn’t complete the transaction because there wasn’t an opportunity. He’s watched, though perhaps not as well as he should be.”

“That, or your brain was too full of dick to pick up on any opportunities. Does he suspect anything?” Yakov goes from spitting mad to professional with an ease that Viktor always has to admire.

“No. _He_ actually approached _me_ , and he obviously felt safe enough to follow me into a back room totally smashed, and--”

“Vitya. _Please_.”

“Anyway, he’s also no pudding-ass lackey. I could take him head-on, but it’d be noisy.” Viktor sips his coffee, a shiver running down his back at the recollection of Yuuri’s arms around his neck, Yuuri’s thighs clenching around his hips.

Yakov sighs heavily. “This is unfortunate. I wanted to hit her where it hurts, and _clean_ , before Georgi’s fuckup drags on too much longer.”

“Sorry!”

“No, you’re not.”

“Not really.” A thoughtful pause, during which Viktor takes another drink; it doesn’t taste nearly enough like motor oil for how hungover he is.

“You’re on standby for now. Or...see if you can get close to him, dig around a little. We’ll wring some use out of him one way or another.”

“You are, as ever, a soft-hearted philanthropist.”

“And _you’re_ a liability.”

“But a lovable one!”

There’s a pursed exhale as though Yakov were, for some reason, restraining himself from the usual stream of expletives. “Just take care, Vitya.”

Viktor smiles hollowly. “I always do.”

* * *

 

Guang-hong rubs his hair dry-ish, his steps making little _splat_ noises on the damp tiles as he heads for his locker. He finally pulls the towel off his head, feeling the cool rush of air over his shoulders and curling around his ears.

“Hey, o-Ji-san!”

He’s still not entirely sure he likes that nickname. “Nawabe-kun, morning!”

“You keep coming here but ya still got these lil chicken arms!” Nawabe pinches his bicep.

“Hey!” Guang-hong flinches out of his grip, stepping into his boxers. “I suppose you _would_ need muscle when you’re such a crap shot.”

Nawabe hisses in a breath, then snorts, slapping his back. “We can’t all be fancy like you, little prince. Some of us gotta do the meat-and-potatoes police work, be ready to crack some heads. Or at least write some parking tickets”

Guang-hong sighs heavily. “I’m pretty sure your meat-and-potatoes is honestly more important than me fetching one am coffee for the Inspector.”

“You mean the--”

Whatever questionably tasteful remark Nawabe was planning is interrupted by his phone chiming. He digs it out of his pile of clothes, grimacing at the preview, then sighs heavily.

“Guess the gym will have to wait. I’m getting saddled with the dead ho they brought in this morning.” He smirks. “Two gashes now, she’ll be _real_ popular!”

Guang-hong’s face freezes in an uncomfortable rictus. “That’s kind of…” he murmurs.

“Officer. She’s a human being, show some decency.” The reprimand is gentle and yet utterly non-negotiable.

They both straighten, turning towards the entrance to the showers. Which currently frames a very damp and warm-looking Agent Iglesia with his towel wrapped around his hips and his arms crossed over his slim but solid chest.

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

“You’re right.” Iglesia nods once. “Sounds like you have a person to attend to.”

“Er, yeah…” Nawabe jams his legs through his pants and hurries out awkwardly. Leaving Guang-hong alone with Iglesia. _Leo_.

He dips his head. “Good morning, sir. I didn’t see you in the gym…?”

Leo steps over to one of the cubbies opposite. “Mm. I wanted to try the pool. I wish we got funding for facilities like this back in L.A.…”

Guang-hong stares at his muscular back as Leo rummages around. _I bet he’s fast._ He turns back to his own clothes hurriedly when Leo drops his towel to the floor.

Leo’s breath rushes out heavily. “Yeesh, I still get the shakes, even little confrontations like that. Y’know?”

Guang-hong hides his brief confusion under his shirt. “Uh...yeah…?”

“Don’t tell anyone.” Guang-hong makes the mistake of looking into Leo’s full-force friendly smile. It turns into a perplexed frown the next second. “I saw your face; it bugged you too. Why didn’t you say anything? You outrank that officer, don’t you?”

“Ah, it’s...complicated. I mean, there’s seniority, and,” _and I’m a baby_ , “so…y’know…”

Leo pats his shoulder. “I’m not trying to put you on the spot, just trying to get to know you.”

Guang-hong turns away, doing his best not to stiffen noticeably. Or think about what state of undress Leo might be in. _Oh my god, what is_ wrong _with me? I’m at_ work! He _is a superior officer!_

“Oh, no suit today? Man, I coulda worn something more comfortable.”

Guang-hong zips up his hoodie, turning with an apologetic smile. “It’s just because I won’t be out of the station today, so--”

“You will, actually. Unless you know something I don’t.” Leo buttons up his shirt, his loose hair framing his face as he looks down. “There’s a potential informant I wanna go talk to, and I’ll need a second set of eyes that’re more versed in Japanese social cues.” He looks up with a self-effacing smile. “Plus I might need an interpreter. I’m not used to the local accent yet.”

“R-right, of course.” _Why am I blushing? I knew this was the sort of thing Mila was signing me on for._ He kicks into his shoes, crouching to tie the laces hastily. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you up there? Leo.”

“See ya.”

A couple of hours later, Guang-hong’s pulling them into a faded parking stall, still side-eyeing Leo timidly. He follows him to the open warehouse doors, tugging his jacket closer around himself; it’s still chilly down by the docks.

Leo’s eyes flick around analytically, at odds with his self-effacing, “Excuse me? Is Fujita-san in today?”

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a minute…” A stout and square middle-aged man comes around the side of a massive gleaming drum fitted with enough strange knobs, dials, and protrusions that it might as well be alchemist’s equipment. The smell of liquor mingles with the mechanical grease on the gloves Fujita’s stripping off and a faint odour of decrepit root vegetables. “What?” He looks them up and down, then says in exasperated are-you-thick English, “We don’t do tours.”

“Actually…”

Leo flashes his badge; Guang-hong follows suit. Movement at the back of the distillery catches his eye.

Fujita sighs, throwing up his hands theatrically. “I got a business to run, and it don’t get easier with you bastards stinkin’ up the place.”

“Then let me be blunt, so we can get out of your hair. I’m looking for your nephew, Mazaki Atsushi…”

Guang-hong zeroes in on a sputter of movement. A terrified face. Flash of the back of a tan jacket, silhouette against the open loading door. Without conscious thought, he launches into a dead run.

“Guang-h--” Leo’s feet slap the concrete behind him.

_Oh...I thought you’d be calling me back…_

Loading dock, lot on his right, rickety fence on the left and tan jacket falling behind it. Guang-hong leaps onto a stack of boxes that jingles ominously but he’s vaulting over the fence before he loses balance.

Another yard and a sneaker tip disappearing around the side of a building. Guang-hong rounds it widely, knowing he can make up the difference with momentum. Tan Jacket spins, terror in his eyes and his hands slapping into some pallets and knocking them across the narrow space.

Guang-hong realises he’s gonna leap about .2 seconds after his feet leave the ground.

He lands stumbling and something under him crunches; he hopes it was wood. Tan Jacket is still looking back at him with his mouth torn open on a pant and then an earth-tone flash slams into the guy’s side.

Leo wrestles him around against the rough wooden fence, arms locked through the other man’s. Guang-hong skids to a halt, still pounding with adrenaline and ready to give chase again. Tan Jacket doesn’t particularly look like Fujiya.

“Mazaki?”

The guy’s not even listening to them, gibbering frantically against the fence.“…see anything! I didn’t-- I wasn’t-- She was just…her face… Oh god, he’s gonna _kill_ me if he thinks I talked…”

“Mazaki?” Leo asks again, then catches Guang-hong’s eye, gaze measured like he’s trying to convey something. “Then let’s get you in the car, fast. Don’t want him finding out, hmm?”

Tan Jacket’s eyes jitter to Guang-hong’s face. Momentarily, Guang-hong feels like the guy in the horror movie that doesn’t realise the monster’s right behind him. Shaking it off, he nods more firmly than he feels. “You’ll be safe with us.”

Tan Jacket doesn’t look entirely convinced, but Leo tugs him firmly back the way he came. “C’mon. Let’s go have a quick chat about what happened with your friend.”

* * *

 

Viktor scowls at the tourism brochure he’s barely even pretending to read anymore.

 _Is he_ ever _going to take a lunch?_

There’s always the possibility that Yuuri had slipped out the back alleyway, but from Yakov’s sources, he usually comes and goes by the front of the studio. Viktor eyes the narrow door resentfully before glancing up again to the picture windows. A row of leotard-clad kids with their hair up in tidy buns dip in unison, hitting him with a nostalgic pang.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the door swing open.

 _Whoop._ He quicksteps his way across the street towards it, barely looking for traffic. _Why couldn’t you work somewhere more conducive to staking out? Wait, that’s probably_ exactly _why you picked it..._

Some god must be smiling on him, because Yuuri pauses as though someone were calling to him from upstairs. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Viktor raises his brochure convincingly and barrels towards him. Yuuri turns like it’s been choreographed and smacks full-on into him.

Viktor waits half a beat as though _riveted_ by the details of Kagoshima’s public transportation and only just become aware of the world around him, then lowers the booklet, face a mask of contrite curiousity. And then breaks into an uncomfortably genuine smile. “Why, hello again!”

Yuuri’s sprawled on his ass on the sidewalk, glasses knocked askew, and looking up at him…as if staring down the barrel of a gun.

Viktor blinks, head tilting slightly. _I’m sure I have the right guy...I wasn’t_ that _drunk…_ He shrugs, offering his free hand with a wink. “You’re even cuter when I can see you properly.” _I really should’ve come up with something smoother._

Yuuri’s now staring at his hand like it’s a lit firework. Righting his glasses, he meets Viktor’s eyes fully. “What...what are _you_ doing _here??_ ”

“Oh, I was just out for a walk, and I--”

“No, I meant… What are you doing in Kagoshima?”

“Vacationing?” _And should’ve thought of a better lie than that. Not used to the long con._ Viktor’s face twitches in a tiny frown. “We met the other night? At Geneva.”

Yuuri’s expression morphs from confusion back to horror. “Oh my god, not again…”

_Oh?_

He curls over, head in his hands. “I’m sorry if I… Whatever I said… God _damnit_ , Minami, you’re supposed to…”

“ _I’m_ not.” Viktor can’t help quirking a smile; as peculiar and balky as Yuuri might be, it’s oddly charming. “Sorry, that is. About _anything_ you said.” He waves his still-extended hand encouragingly; they’re _flirting_ , goddamn it, even if he has to drag Yuuri kicking and screaming the whole way. “In fact, I’ve been very curious to know what _else_ you might have to say.”

Satisfyingly, Yuuri finally takes his hand, letting Viktor pull him to his feet. “I can’t believe I forgot talking to my idol…”

Viktor draws Yuuri’s hand back, pulling him into his space. “We did a bit more than talk.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen, ruddy heat splashing across his cheeks. “I…?” Abruptly, he tears out of Viktor’s grasp, backing away almost like he’s about to bolt.

 _This is like some kind of Jekyll and Hyde routine. But is it genuine or artifice?_ Viktor claps his hands together, making Yuuri flinch. “Right. I’m starving! Where do you go to get something good to eat around here?”

Yuuri’s clearly thrown by the topic change but it has the desired effect of making him look less like he’s ready to scale the side of a building to flee. “Uh… There’s a ramen place across the street, and a banh mi place near the station, or…maybe you wanted Western food…?”

Impatient, Viktor steps in closer, brushing his fingers under his chin. “Yuuri. I’m asking you what _you_ like to eat. I’m _trying_ to ask you out on a lunch date, here.” If he sounds ever so slightly petulant, hopefully Yuuri will forgive him.

“Gyih??”

 _Not…quite the response I was imagining…_ “So…”

“Ihavetogorightnow.” Yuuri scuttles out from under his arm and is halfway down the block before Viktor can do more than stare after him open-mouthed.

Viktor considers chasing him for a solid minute. With a faintly disgusted noise, he stalks off in the opposite direction, taking out his phone.

The line connects after a couple rings. Viktor takes a deep breath. “Yaaaaakooooooooov--”

“No.” _Click._

Viktor keeps walking, giving his phone a deeply injured look; it remains unphased. Not that he’d expected any different. With a shrug, he scrolls to Chris’s contact info, hoping that his bleary memory of updating it last night is accurate. Signs point to yes: there’s also an autocorrect-error-riddled note about...leather pants? Cotton candy? Viktor smiles to himself, tapping the number.

“Allo?”

“Chriiiiiiiiiiiiis! I got--well, not even stood up this time, just totally struck out. Somehow. _Me._ ”

Chris snorts. “Jesus, man, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Please tell me this one had a tighter ass and better style.”

Viktor’s face pinches huffily. “He had a _fantastic_ ass, thank you very much, and style can be remedied.” A sandwich sounds good; he turns the corner toward the station. “ _You_ went out with Mullet Boy, even though--”

“Argh, stop calling him that! It’s been _years_ . And it was _barely_ a mullet.”

Viktor snickers into his hand. “Okay, okay. Bringing the conversation back to important things, i.e. me…” He has the sudden impulse to lie, but he shakes it off. “It was the boy from last night again, actually.”

Chris whistles low. “Was he really _that_ good? Didn’t look like anything too mind-blowing from where I--”

“Can we please forget about that?”

“Absolutely not. Let me know if you’re ever planning a comeback so I can make sure to have the Viktor Nikiforov sex tape ready for release.” Chris hums thoughtfully. “If you’re planning on moping over boys, you might as well come here and do it over mimosas.”

“Isn’t it late in the day for mimosas?”

“It is _never_ too late in the day for mimosas. What kind of gay _are_ you?”

Viktor laughs softly. “Knew I could count on you. What’s the address?”

* * *

 

Yuri hoists himself onto the desk, kicking his feet impatiently. Oddly, it doesn’t make the file transfer go any faster.

“Koshka, did you just sit?” the old hag rasps in his ear.

“What, you worried I’ll leave an ass print?”

“Mind your tongue. This is a serious job.”

“Yeah, and I’m seriously tired. It’s prolly not even night yet where you are.”

“You’re still a baby, you’re not allowed to get tired.”

“I’m pretty sure your nagging’s aging me prematurely.” Grimacing, Yuri gives a last little kick then slides off the desk. “If I’m stuck here…”

“Koshka.”

Lilia’s tone is cautionary, but he ignores her for the moment. Yuri fishes his penlight out of his hoodie pocket, shining it behind the sparse furniture in the room fruitlessly before turning his attention to the ancient filing cabinet.

The lock on the bottom drawer is only for show and yields to a push, but the drawer itself scrapes and rattles out grudgingly.

He eyes the cheap safe greedily. “Yessssssss!”

“Koshka, what are you doing?” Lilia snaps out.

“Grabbing my allowance.”

“You are most certainly _not_.”

“I got a reputation to maintain. Can’t go around leaving valuables all locked up and lonely.” Lilia makes a disgusted noise. “Now shut up so I can listen.”

“Why do I subject myself to this? I could be happily retired, just lounging on a beach somewhere with--”

Yuri pops off the earpiece, stuffing it into his pocket. He can still faintly hear Lilia crabbing to herself, but now he can also hear the soft clicks as he twists the dial. _Where’d they get this piece of crap, a dollar store?_

With a third and final click, he feels the mechanism give, and swings the door open with a triumphant grin before sticking his penlight between his lips. Slim pickings, just a single envelope with a meagre wad of bills inside. Yuri squints at the denominations suspiciously; it’s probably a lot, hell if he can remember the conversion rate. Two folders with documents that don’t look particularly juicy; he snaps photos of a few of them anyway.

And then he’s left looking at the final item in the safe: a smartphone in a sleek red case with a scattering of tiny fake gems on the back.

Wrinkling his nose, Yuri plucks it up. The screen is spectacularly smashed; he’s not surprised that waking it up causes only a distressed oil slick flicker before it goes black again. He narrows his eyes at it, shining the penlight on its cracked surface as though he could intimidate it into revealing its secrets.

Which is when he notices the voice coming from his pocket is screeching.

Yuri shoves the phone into his jeans, scooping the earpiece out of the hoodie pocket and jamming it clumsily on his ear.

“--are you _listening_ to me, Koshka? They’ve parked out front, but I can’t follow them ins--”

“Time to run?”

“ _Yes!_ Window.”

She sounds relieved. _Gramma’s got a soft spot for me after all._ No time to dwell. He bounces on the balls of his feet while the drive ejects, then tucks it into his pants as well. Then up on the desk and opening the filthy window with an unfortunate metal screech.

“There’s a ledge about a meter down. You’re going to have to jump down from there.”

“Are you serious?”

Obediently, he hops out the window, hanging on his elbows for a second before his toes find the ledge. There’s thumping from somewhere inside the building; Yuri drops down into a crouch against the wall, only his gloved fingertips still on the sil. He glances over his shoulder. A couple meters away, there’s the chainlink fence that he’d cut through earlier.

Somewhere between calculation and instinct. A quick sum of the facts and an answer in the bunched energy of his legs.

He kicks off, twisting in the air like a pole vaulter, teeth bared with laughter closed in the back of his throat. It punches out of him on a gasp when he hits the fence but his fingers automatically clench on the wire. One of them might be dislocated, a problem for later. There’s an outraged yell from the window behind him, so he digs his toes in and scrabbles his way up and over. A shorter drop from there to the pavement, jolting up his legs and spine. He turns it into a springboard, launches himself into a spin and off running into the night.

“Where?”

“Take a left, then-- Shit, there’s another car! Quickly!”

“Nah, I’m gonna sit down in--”

“If you have breath to sass me, use it to run! Keep straight.”

He ignores the urge to look behind him, even though he can clearly hear a car engine coalescing out of the murmur of the city.

“Go right.”

Feet slamming the pavement, but they’re not coming from behind him. _Shit, is there another alley she didn’t see?_ _Shit shit shit._

They’re not police, there’ll be no ‘stop, thief!’ and no mercy. Not if whatever was in that office was important enough to put four guys on his ass.

Each stride pulls the phone stiff against his thigh.

A sliver of fluorescence up ahead, door propped open and an apron-clad figure leaning against the wall blowing smoke into the night. Some higher power smiling on him because wheels screech at the other end of the narrow street and someone shouts _hey_ so Apron’s definitely looking away and Yuri can fling himself through the door unaccosted, kicking the chunk of concrete propping it open free.

“Oh, good boy, Koshka.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her praise or stop there, scrambles through a dingy storage room and crashes through a door into a wash of dark, heat, noise.

And not the noise he was expecting. Something raw and haunting that honestly he takes a moment to understand as music. But he hears pounding on the door behind him, so he darts forward into the crowd.

A little sparse to get lost in easily, but he’s certain his pursuers’ll double around the front so it’ll have to do. Maybe he can slip out a bathroom window when he’s sure they’re inside. Yuri strips off his hoodie, dumping it on the back of a chair as he passes. Gloves go in his back pocket, and he lets down his hair to hide the earpiece. Lilia’s probably complaining about the din, but Yuri can almost tune it out as he makes his way to the small stage at the end of the club.

He’s not really sure how you’re supposed to dance to this, and most people don’t seem to be anyway, apart from one dreamy-looking girl moving in a vague, flowing way that has tenuous relation to the rhythm. But they still crowd close. _The hell kind of person plays this crap--oh._

Yuri glares at the guy standing behind a mess of consoles. It’s hard to tell his height, but he’s stocky, compact. He has a generic undercut, his thick dark hair pushed back from his forehead, and with the leather jacket, he looks like some kind of retro-wannabe. High cheekbones, an angular jaw, and intense eyes that flick up briefly just as Yuri’s looking.

Yuri takes half a step back. _What the fuck, man?_ The guy glances back down at his hands, adjusting something to bring out a fuzzily distorted sample of human voices. The music is almost oppressive, sending goosebumps up his shoulders.

Flesh-and-blood voices rise behind him, but he forces himself not to turn around. Yuri smirks to himself. They’ll give up as soon as they realise the only description they can offer is ‘black hoodie’. Considering the aesthetic of most of the people there, his impulse choice couldn’t have been better.

“Koshka, I’m calling for a ride.”

He turns his head slightly, listening for any more commotion, then looks back at the dickbag behind the console. “Don’t tell them to hurry.”

“What? Why?”

“They’re inside. I don’t wanna move too soon.” It has absolutely _nothing_ to do with this fucker and his godawful clanky bullshit. “Looks like there’s bathrooms on the south side of the building. Tell them to meet me there.”

“Pakhan isn’t going to be happy about this.”

“The old bastard's never happy about anything.” He fingers the phone through his jeans. “But maybe this'll cheer him up. I think I got something good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what's cool so otabek gets to make stuff based on my questionable taste in music
> 
> also yuri's def wearing some kind of yoga jeans. is his shirt some kind of animal print travesty? YOU FUCKIN BET.


	3. Chapter 3

Sara feels a flicker of nervousness as the boat slips away from the dock, its engines a smooth hum somewhere down below. Whatever she tells Mickey, or would have if she let him know about this, not having an escape route is putting her on edge. But the opportunity was too good to pass up.

A 30-something greasy-looking guy, already drunk, paws at her bicep. “Hey, baby, ya look like ya needa drink. Can I buy ya a drink?”

She doesn’t even flinch anymore, just smiles and fawns with practiced naturalness. “Ooh, please? I’m  _ dying _ for one.” He beams at her like she’s just made his night and then stumbles unsteadily towards the bar; whether he’ll make it back is anyone’s guess.

Her phone chirps from her bag.  _ Should put it on silent, not that anyone’ll be able to hear with the music. _ She glances at the message preview.

> Teresa: Sara can u call me!!

With a grimace, she drops it back into her clutch.  _ Later _ .

She glances up, eyes drawn like magnets to a very familiar figure.

_ Jesus, could she look more aggressively gay if she tried? _

Mila leans an elbow on the bar, grinning unabashedly at whatever joke she’s surely just made. She’s wearing a subdued black suit with a flashy red blouse that  _ should _ clash with her hair but somehow doesn’t, a black tie hanging undone either side of its open neck with calculated nonchalance. Her hair is messily pushed back, giving her an untamed feel, as if the hard red of her lips ought to be smeared by another’s mouth.

Sara looks away hurriedly, flushing.  _ What the hell is she doing here?  _ At least it’s not Mickey. As if the thought might have conjured him up, she hurriedly sweeps the cabin but is relieved not to see him. At least he wouldn’t stick out as much here; there’s more than a few brown and blond heads mixed in with the darker shades tonight.

Her phone chimes again, but she ignores it. She’s got a job to do. Two, in fact.

And better get to it; she can feel the heavy glare of the Nakanishi-kai who hired them to work this party. A sharp man, on his way up, but nobody of note just yet. But still, filed away in her mind to be added to a report later, along with his penchant for some kind of herbal-smelling gum and the faded cigarette burn scar next to his left eye.

_ Work the room, make sure everyone has a good time, extra cash for any Special Attentions given. _ Though undoubtedly that’s not out of the kindness of their hearts: Sara has no doubt there’s hidden cameras in the staterooms and covering the more secluded areas of the ship. Blackmail is good business, especially when you’re trying to establish a foothold in new territory. Plenty of tonight’s guests are legitimate business owners and officials, or at least would very much prefer to maintain that image.

The boat isn’t that big, but big enough to avoid someone if you’re careful. Not that Sara particularly wants to, but work comes first. Or it should. Like a prisoner long resigned to her fate who has just been reminded of the world outside, this small intrusion throws off her rhythm. She keeps losing track of whether she’s supposed to be laughing or listening or “forgetting” how low-cut her dress is when she refills someone’s glass because all she can think of is the last time they’d seen each other.

A night with winter’s tongue murmuring in the wind and drawing goosebumps up on Mila’s skin where they’d stood on the balcony. A last party at the apartment Sara shared with Mickey before she went under, last chance to hang out without a mask on, without hypervigilance ratcheted up to max. So easy to lose herself in friendship and laughter, but right now she bathes in it, lets it soak into her skin and hang like a scent in her hair. And yet something kept her from relaxing totally, some sweet tension that always rose when Mila was in the room.

Then came the moment she’d gone from  _ is she? maybe? probably? _ to  _ she is _ , laughing as Mila decried the aggressive heterosexuality of the movie they were watching. Then later on the balcony, Mila reenacting the tense climax between the two leads in a way that should be lame but had Sara snort-laughing then blushing furiously when Mila switched from performing  _ for  _ her to performing  _ to _ her, a seriousness under the goofiness, an invitation. One she’d been eager to accept, brushing her fingers down Mila’s chilled arm and offering her a sweater the way one offers a cup of coffee.

In her room with the door shut behind them and pulling a white merino sweater down over Mila’s head. Mila shaking the stretched-out front and cracking some joke about their physiques and impatience or perhaps wine finally getting the better of Sara because she hushed her with a kiss, stilled her hands with the press of her body and her arms winding around Mila’s neck and the sweater so soft against her own bare arms and chest. Mila’s arms curling around her in vindication of a hundred curious glances, a hundred tentative touches.

And then cut off abruptly by her door banging open and Mickey asking if they had any more toilet paper except the end of the question is a garble and that was the end of that.

But perhaps not.

She’s lounging on a low couch and busily flirting with one of the upstanding members of society, oohing and ahing over his self-proclaimed pull in the public works department, when she feels someone flop down on her other side. She can’t help glancing over, even though she knows exactly who it is.

Sara’s mark adjusts his glasses, leaning around her. “Haven’t I seen you on the news?” There’s a faintly nervous tremor on the last word.

Sara squints at Mila pointedly.

Ignoring her, Mila smiles back at him. “Probably. I’m gorgeous, you’d remember.” She crosses her legs, resting one elbow on the back of the couch just behind Sara’s head.

He snorts. “True, you  _ are  _ hot. Though not quite as hot as my lovely companion here.”

Sara giggles obligingly.  _ That would’ve come off a little smoother if you remembered my name. _

Before she can respond, though, another man claps her mark on the shoulder. “Minamoto-san, I was hoping to have a word…”

“Ah…” He grimaces, then gives Sara a wistful look, patting her bare thigh. “Perhaps we’ll…chat again later…?”

“Sure!” Sara watches him go with a smile, then takes a sip of her drink, snapping out in its cover, “What the fuck are you doing here? If you blow my cover--”

“Relax. I’m just a possibly crooked public servant enjoying an evening out and hitting on cute ladies, no different from anyone else here. Except that I’m better company.”

Sara tries to hold onto some semblance of irritation, but it’s like water through her fingers in the face of Mila’s smile and the bright ocean blue of her eyes. Sara huffs, scooching closer on the couch, but takes out her phone.  _ Interpret that how you will. _

There’s a message from Mickey which she ignores outright, and another from Teresa.

> Teresa: Sara pls!! I need someone to take sadi tomorrow! I can’t miss another shift!!

“Do working girls have schedules? I didn’t realise it was that formal…”

She’s not surprised Mila’s reading over her shoulder. “Teresa got a hostessing gig. She’s trying to get herself out, poor kid.” Mila hums sympathetically, taking a sip of her cocktail. Sara turns her phone to type.

Sara: okaaaaaay  
why tho? what happened to delia?

“That guy in the ugly suit is glaring at you. Aren’t you supposed to be ingratiating yourself with these guys? Which gang are they again--”

“I  _ was _ , until you interrupted.”

“I did not! He left on his own. Clearly, he knew he was outclassed. And anyways, you don’t think a little girl-on-girl will increase your cachet with these guys?” Mila brushes a few strands of Sara’s hair back. The graze of her nail against her temple sends a delicious shiver down Sara’s spine.

Sara side-eyes her, smiling. “It’s not gonna make them invite  _ you _ again.”

Mila giggles, fingertips brushing Sara’s bare shoulders. “I’ll just have to make a private appointment, then. With you.” She’s close enough that her breath warms Sara’s throat. “That is, if you can fit me in…to your busy schedule.”

“Mila…” She leans heavily on a hand planted between them until her arm brushes Mila’s breast. “Why are you here?”

Mila makes an affronted noise. “Would you believe me if I told you it has nothing to do with you?”

“Yes.”

“I might be lying.” She takes another sip, eyeing the turquoise liquid neutrally before tossing the remainder back. “You haven’t been checking in regularly.”

Sara pulls something suspiciously close to a pout, her voice a low, furious whisper. “I told them, I didn’t want Mickey as my handler again! He gets...weird.  _ Especially _ about stuff like this. I don’t need to be taking care of his weird bruised man ego on top of everything else. The city’s too volatile.”

“That’s great, but  _ I’m _ the one who has to deal with his histrionics.” Mila leans forward to put down her glass. When she sits up, her hand curls warm just above Sara’s knee.

“Bullshit. You’re making that new kid deal with him.” She’s glad she can depend on her mouth to work on its own because her mind is captured by the long middle finger pushing slowly down to the inside of her knee and back up, just shy of ticklish.

“I bet I could finger you right here without any of these fuckers noticing.” Mila’s voice is closer than she’d expected, bright sound playing over her skin and between her shoulder blades. “Though I like to think you’d have a hard time keeping quiet.”

Sara’s phone chimes again.

“You gonna get that? She seemed pretty upset.”

Sara inhales, turning to nose against Mila’s cheek. “No.”

“Ooh, ice cold! I think I li--”

Fluidly, Sara twists and swings a leg over Mila’s hips, her vodka-cran sloshing in the glass.

_ If I’m gonna put on a show for these guys, might as well go all out. _

Though if she’s honest, this has more to do with the arousal bubbling up from between her now indecently spread legs.

She catches Mila’s eyes, feeling her lips curl in a more relaxed smile. Impulsively, she grabs Mila’s trailing tie, using it to balance as she bends back. Slowly, slowly, body arched perfectly to show off her breasts, and then reaching back to set her glass down with a quiet  _ clack _ . She can feel eyes on them, but all she cares about is the hunger in Mila’s, the way her arms slide up Sara’s back as she pulls herself upright, the way their bodies come together, fitting perfectly. Mila’s mouth opens on her collarbone with a soft hum.

“You’re going to make a mess.”

“I thought that was the point.” Mila takes her hand, raising it to her mouth but turning it so the pads of Sara’s fingers touch lightly. “I got a new no-smudge one. Been dying to see how it holds up.”

Sara rubs her finger lightly in a tiny circle on Mila’s lower lip, then pushes inside to feel the scrape of her teeth and the slip of her tongue. “Well, we’d better be thorough. Can’t just test it out dry.”

Mila grins cheekily, then sucks wetly on her finger. Sara pulls against it, leaving a light smear over her lower lip, then down, down to the hollow of Mila’s throat and lower, slitting open the front of her blouse, down to where sternum gives way to softness and she fetches up against the first secured button. Mila strokes down her sides, slippery over the cheap fabric--a dress carefully selected not to look above her means--and down to squish her hips. Sara rolls them back for the benefit of those watching but also pulling cloth deliciously tight against her crotch, just shy of full sensation.

Lips close on the side of her neck, too reserved for a bite but still hard enough to make her inhale shakily. “Jesus, you’re ready to go. The call girl lifestyle not nearly as sexy as it’s cracked up to be?”

Sara’s eyes flick open, embarrassed heat running down her neck. But she forges ahead, tipping Mila’s face up as she moves restlessly in her lap. “Yeah. I am.” A quick, heavy press of lips, and in case her intent isn’t clear, she finishes, “Ready.”

It feels like playing hookie. Slipping out into the wind-whipped night that would be far too cold if Sara’s veins were not running with fire. Falling into Mila on a reclined deck chair with their legs interwoven and finally, finally, that beautiful friction that draws a heavy breath from her. Mila nudges her back to shrug out of her blazer, stealing a quick kiss that turns into something long and luxurious as they drop down.

Mila’s thigh comes up between her own and Sara rocks her hips back, again, again, gasping softly against Mila’s cheek. She pushes a hand up under Mila’s shirt, petting her side heavily and then bracing a hand on her hip so she can grind down against her. Mila moans ridiculously, one hand stroking the side of her breast and the other grabbing at her ass. Sara reaches back, hiking the fabric up until Mila’s hand slides over bare skin, down, down to the back of her thigh and then up, squeezing luxuriantly.

Lips on her own, matching her eagerness breath for breath, and Mila’s noises quieter now but still riding fire down Sara’s spine. Mila’s hand creeps up to her shoulder, pushing the straps of dress and bra down and gathering Sara’s hair out of the way to press her lips there. But Sara pulls away, sitting back to slide one arm free then the other, the fabric slipping down with the weight of her breasts.

“Goddamn, you are beautiful.”

Mila strokes a hand through her hair, down to cup the side of her breast and then squeeze. Rough and too much and good, so good, and Sara gathers her up against her chest with a groan. Mila kisses under her chin then curls to bury another kiss between her breasts, tugging the fabric of her dress down.

“Why did I wear so much clothing?” Mila laments.

“Your mistake.” Sara cups her face, guiding her to mouth a nipple through sheer fabric. She curls one hand in Mila’s hair, sliding the other down the back of her collar teasingly for a moment before groping her way down Mila’s front to work the buttons free. Mila’s hand is back on her ass and any time Sara stills long enough, she drags a finger between her thighs to rub the growing wetness there. Sara tilts her hips back encouragingly, her body a tight arc as Mila’s teeth graze and catch her nipple. Sticky warmth is building inside, caught in the cup of her hips and a bright streak every time she grinds forward on Mila’s thigh. Good, so good, and Mila kissing up her throat, panting lightly, and her fingers tangled in Sara’s hair. Sara coaxes her to tip her head up, distant lights catching in Mila’s darkened eyes.

Sara bites her lip, a desperate noise escaping as her movements get more jerky. Mila watches her quietly a second longer then dips down to suck on her other nipple. She strokes Sara’s thigh, squirming her hips up with her own need and greedy impatience to push Sara over the edge. But she’s already there, hanging in that beautiful moment before the cascade takes her over. The honey-sweetness low in her belly spills down, leaving her arched with her mouth open but her breath stopped in her throat until she’s lightheaded. She releases the air in a heavy pant, Mila burying her face in her breasts as she heaves in another breath.

“You’re too quiet,” Mila complains, nuzzling her.

Sara doesn’t bother answering, just shoves her back, lying half on top of her but leaving plenty of room to drag a hand down her front to edge fingertips under the waistband of her pants. Mila doesn’t waste time fumbling the fly open one-handed, her other arm curled tight around her waist. Holding Mila’s eyes, she jams her hand in.

“Nevermind too much, why’d you have to wear such tight pants?”

“They make my ass look great!”

Sara hums vague agreement, attention already monopolised by the soft slide of Mila’s panties and the topography underneath. The heat of it never ceases to thrill her, sending an echo rippling through that leaves her curling her leg tighter around Mila’s.

“Don’t mess around, girl. I wanna come.”

Sara pushes up on one elbow, watching Mila intently. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of pushy?”

“Frequently, usually not in such polite te--ohholyshit.”

Sara smiles at her, squeezing her clit between two fingers again. Mila certainly isn’t quiet, gasping when Sara rolls over that harder core and moaning eagerly when she slicks between her labia. She drags the wetness up, everything delicious and slidey and enveloping her fingers and Mila tilting her hips like it’s still not enough.

Sara kisses her softly. “Penetration okay?”

Mila tries to catch her lips again, breath rushing out. “ _ Please _ . Fucking make me come, Sara.”

Sara touches her lips to her temple, her body pressed tight against Mila’s side. The seam of the pants digs into her knuckles as she curls her fingers under until she finds the source of heat and wetness. She dips two fingers inside, luxuriating in the velvet squish of it, then pushes them in further, palm pressing heavy against Mila’s clit. There’s barely room to move, just a quick rocking motion and hooking her fingers just  _ so _ as Mila moans against her cheek, nosing at her hungry for a kiss. It’s impossible to resist, and why should she?

Abruptly, Sara pushes herself back, straddling Mila’s thigh again. She stretches the fabric to its limit to get the best angle, rubbing her thumb roughly over Mila’s clit as she thrusts her fingers in.

“Oh fffff…” Mila grabs at her dress as her muscles pull tight, dragging Sara deeper. With a cry and a delicious shudder, she comes.

Sara keeps fucking her through it, slow and luxurious and loving each ebbing squeeze around her fingers. She draws her hand free, letting Mila relax and draping herself over her with a sigh.

There’s finding out the person someone is in bed, and then there’s finding out who they are after. Mila stretches like a cat, the edge of her ribcage digging into Sara’s stomach, then melts, arms slipping down around Sara’s waist in a hug. Sara tucks her face against Mila’s shoulder, curling a hand on the other side of her neck. Wind teases over their bodies, drying sweat on bare skin.

Sara wriggles around, pulling her dress approximately back into place. Mila makes a faint grumbling noise, rubbing at her arm and back.

“Sorry I don’t have a sweater to offer you.”

Sara’s eyes flick open. Not that it particularly matters, but she somehow hadn’t imagined that night would linger in Mila’s mind.

“…Oh, wait!” Mila twists, dislodging Sara, so she sits back on her leg, watching as Mila fishes around off the side of the chair. Mila rolls back upright with a toothy smile and slings her blazer around Sara’s shoulders.

She crosses her arms over her chest, tugging it a little closer, already feeling warmer. When she glances up at Mila, she’s leaning back on her elbows, lips parted slightly as she admires her openly.

“You look…” Instead of finishing, Mila gathers her close, kissing her collarbone with startling heat. Insistently, she tugs on Sara’s leg until she shifts to sit fully in Mila’s lap.

Kisses sprinkled over her neck and spilling up her chin and Mila catching her bottom lip between her own and only then Sara realises she’s been slowly falling back until Sara’s hair hangs down around them. She sinks into Mila with a sigh, kissing her long, slow, soft. Mila makes a soft noise low in her throat, curling her arms around Sara’s thighs and hiking her up while also slouching down. Her fingers tease up under the skirt, skimming Sara’s ass and then back down and trailing a shiver of arousal in their wake. She slips them under once more, warm strokes leaving Sara utterly unprepared for when she reaches between her legs and drags a finger over her pussy.

“Fffffah…!” Barely any pressure, just the slight catch of her nail giving excruciatingly little friction, but delicious for the hunger it betrays. Hunger that has Mila tracing her labia over and over while she tugs Sara higher on her stomach.

“Lace. Lace is fun.”

“What are you yanking on me for?”

“Trying out new wrestling moves, what d’you think?” Mila slides her hands up her back under the dress, pulling. “C’mon up. That is, if you’re game.”

Heat prickles down her spine; she barely needs the blazer now. “The back of the chair’s up.”

Mila huffs dramatically, shimmying down until her head’s near the wide bend.

“You could put it flat.” Still, she shifts, thighs spreading and the skirt riding up.

Mila pushes it out of the way to beam at her. “You’re gonna need something to hold on to.”

Without warning, Sara pushes a hand into Mila’s hair, grabbing ungently and tugging her up. “I already got something.”

Mila chuckles, then kisses, ridiculous and squeaky and because of that sending a delicious little thrill of vibration through her crotch. Mila noses at her, wedging one arm under her thigh while the other hand plays up under the blazer to cup Sara’s breast. Her lips meander over the lace, light, so light, and not preparing her for the heavy lave of her tongue. Sara’s breath shakes, her fingers flexing in Mila’s hair. Another, another, until the fabric is warm and wet again, until Mila can find her clit and suck at it through the thin barrier.

Sara tries to swallow a moan. She’s still over-sensitised and it’s almost too much but fresh arousal is fast overtaking her. She shifts her hips restlessly, drawing back before pushing against Mila’s lips.

Mila slips a fingertip under her panties, just running it back and forth slowly, grazing her labia. Her head falls back against the thin padding as she hooks the panties out of the way. And then, gorgeous, gorgeous, hot and soft, gives her her mouth. This time, Sara can’t hold back the low groan, her hips tipping back to drag against Mila’s tongue. Mila murmurs her own pleasure, mouthing her clit enthusiastically. Sara glances over her shoulder, watching Mila squirming slowly, her mind full of those tight pants and the loveliness of a heavy seam to grind against. But this, this is so much better, slidey and unpredictable and the quick pinch of lip-covered teeth making her gasp sharply but cant her hips for more.

Mila still holds her underwear clear, but her other hand steals down to stroke delicately over labia, the pad of her thumb pressing low before skimming back up. Sara’s not sure if it’s intended as an offer but she arches back and gropes around shakily for Mila’s hand. The angle’s terrible and her attention is compromised but somehow she manages to slick Mila’s knuckle against her hole. Mila moans loudly, sucking her clit in as much as she can and pinching it gently before letting it go. And gloriously, gloriously, pushes one finger and then two inside.

Sara nearly whimpers, eyes squeezed shut tight. She still has one hand buried firmly in Mila’s hair but she does need to lean on the back of the chair after all, fingers digging into the pad as her hips move in tight arcs. Mila’s only using one hand now, and Sara has a feeling she knows where the other is but she can’t be bothered to look, it just fuels the ecstatic rush building in her. Their movements synchronise beautifully, each thrust of Mila’s fingers driving the tilt of her hips just  _ so _ so she’s sliding against her lips exquisitely. Sara’s thighs flex, as though she could spread them any more, and she shudders, head lolling back and mouth open on an uneven pant.

Last time was sweet, almost gentle for all its urgency. This time hits her like a race car, slamming inside her ribs and down to the tip of her clit. She feels every pulse of it, and god, she feels when Mila follows her into that rush, the tense and shimmer of her body under her and the tight noise she makes against Sara’s clit.

Sara curls forward, just catching her breath for a long moment. Her eyes slit open, devouring Mila’s expression,  _ her _ breath still hot and heavy and a couple strands of hair plastered to her forehead.

It’s only when she looks up that she registers the faintly herbal smell.

Doing what she does, she’s had to get over being caught in compromising positions, but somehow this is different. She clutches for the blazer, but it’s long gone.  _ How long has he been there?? _

Mila seems to slowly become aware something’s off. She wiggles and shoulders her way up, then turns to peek over the edge of the deck chair. Then waves.

The Nakanishi man leers, then drops into a more stone-faced formality, holding out…Sara’s bag. “There was a phone ringing; it was bothering the guests.”

“Ah, I’m so sorry!” Sara snatches it from him a little less gracefully than she’d like, babbling a vague excuse about her friend. With only the slightest of smug smiles, he bows shallowly and disappears around the side of the boat.

“Bet he got an eyeful.” Mila drapes her arms around Sara’s waist, giving her a sated smile.

“I’m gonna not think about that.” Sara takes out her phone, wishing she’d put it on silent when she first thought of it.  _ Very stealthy. _

She hesitates for a second, then wakes it up; wouldn’t hurt to at least see who had called.

Teresa.

Five times.

And there were more texts.

> Teresa: thats the thing i havent heard from her in a few days shes not returning my texts  
>  sara!! pls!!  
>  oh my god i went by her place cops out front idk if its her but sara im worried she must be in some kind of trouble  
>  i basically ran past bc i didn’t want them to stop me was that bad? sara im scared
> 
> Lead settles in her stomach, along with a faint thread of resentment.  _ I can’t even take five minutes for myself without the universe making me feel guilty. _

“What’s wrong?” Mila leans against her chest, obviously trying to read the texts.

Sara shuts off her phone abruptly. “Something.” She wants to offer some kind of affection or comfort, but can’t tell what or if it’s really Mila the urge is directed at. “We should go back.”

* * *

 

Sometimes, fortune aligns perfectly. An unseasonably warm day drives windows open, a lull in traffic grants quiet just in time for a voice to waft out to him from the dance studio’s windows:

“Yuuri, that hot foreigner is hanging around again.”

_ Well, at least somebody appreciates me. _

A second later, a bespectacled face appears in one of the windows. Viktor breaks out his most winning smile and waves coyly. The face slinks back behind a wall.

He’s honestly debating whether he should double round the back in case Yuuri decides to slip out that way when there’s a commotion from the other side of the street.

This time, no English, but he doesn’t need the words to understand the frantic (and futile-sounding) protests and strident response. The studio’s door wrenches inwards and a disheveled Yuuri staggers out, barely missing a passerby. Before the door slams shut, Viktor catches sight of a tall slender woman with a ferocious grin; suddenly, he gets the feeling that it had not been fortune that led her to speak in English.

_ Bless you, whoever you are. _

Yuuri claws at the door desperately, but it doesn’t seem to budge; Viktor wastes no time and advances on him, so that when Yuuri finally turns, splayed against the door like a criminal caught in a spotlight, he’s only a step away.

He cocks his head, giving Yuuri a bemused smile. “Am I really that unpleasant? You’re starting to hurt my feelings...”

“N-no!” Yuuri scans frantically back and forth at about waist level. “I don’t-- It’s not-- I-I have work to do--”

“Well, it seems you’re shut out of your studio, so won’t it have to wait anyway?”

“It’s not… I have to go somewhere…”

“Are you walking? I’ll come with you! Which way?”  _ What sort of business are you planning, little piggy? _

“I…” Yuuri finally meets his eyes, exasperation warring with a wistfulness that Viktor intends to milk for all it’s worth. “...Do you  _ really _ have no idea…?”

Viktor knows damn well what he’s implying, but he blinks disingenuously. “About what?”

A frown flashes across Yuuri’s face, but then he leans in somewhat conspiratorily. “Look, this work… It’s something very dangerous.” As if intuiting Viktor’s next response, he hurries to continue, “And boring! Extremely boring.”

“Then it’ll be more fun with company, won’t it? Which way are you going?”

Yuuri looks like he’s readying another objection, but then just sighs and jerks his thumb down the street.

It’s hard not to let his smugness show as they set off, but Viktor manages to maintain a more blithely sunny façade. Yuuri, for his part, keeps his eyes fixed on the ground ahead, face held just the neutral side of a frown. Out of the graciousness of his heart, Viktor decides not to take it personally; rather, it’s a chance to study him.

He’d barely gotten a look at him the other day, and he doesn’t entirely trust his alcohol-muddied evaluation of Yuuri’s attractiveness, but now, in the soft shadow of a spring evening, he can judge better. And, judging objectively, he has to conclude that Yuuri is beautiful. Baby-faced in a way that isn’t helped by the pudge but makes him look sweet in a way that’s very much at odds with the dossier Yakov’s sources had compiled on him. Jet-black hair cut in the most generic men’s haircut Viktor could imagine and yet so temptingly soft-looking and now he’s trying to remember whether he’d touched Yuuri’s hair that night. Yuuri had certainly touched  _ his _ ; Viktor feels a shiver down his scalp and fizzling between his shoulder blades at the memory. Especially once Yuuri’s done up his brown duffle coat (Viktor’s impressed the unknown woman had let him put it on at all), he seems hunched, smaller than he really is. And yet there’s a subtle underlying confidence and grace to his gait. Except for the slightest hitch in his stride.

_ Injury? _

Yuuri glances furtively at him, flinching when he catches Viktor staring openly. His eyes flick front, an appealing blush spreading across his face.

“Yuuri.” He delights in the way the name rolls off his tongue, the way it breaks like a wave against Yuuri. “Tell me about yourself.”

What little he’d relaxed in the past few minutes, Yuuri snaps shut like a barely-opened bud. “There’s nothing interesting to tell.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“All I do is work.”

“And get phenomenally drunk and sleep with your idols, it seems.”

Yuuri comes to an abrupt stop, slapping both hands over his face and making a noise somewhere between a squeak and choking.

Viktor tries not to laugh.  _ Maybe a little too blunt… _

“Did…did we really…?”

“Do I need to bring you the pair of underwear you left with me as proof?”

“That…won’t be necessary…” Yuuri still hasn’t resurfaced from behind his hands; Viktor finds he very much wants to see what kind of cute embarrassed face he’s making.

“Good, because they’re garbage. Why do you wear such terrible clothing?”

That finally makes Yuuri reveal one carnelian eye. “ _ I _ like my clothes.”

“I’m sure you do,” Viktor responds primly, starting walking again.

“They’re comfortable.” Yuuri hustles to catch up to him, then falls back into a comfortable stride.

“I’m sure they are.” Viktor gives him a sidelong glance, then darts his hand out, pulling on the collar of Yuuri’s coat. “What were you wearing under that, some bargain-bin athletic shirt?”

“H-hey!” Yuuri tugs on his coat self-consciously. “It’s  _ not _ \--”

“And don’t you think that’s false advertising? I mean, you don’t exactly seem like the six am jog type--”

“Are you  _ actually _ trying to hit on me, or just ruin my damn day?”

_ At least he  _ is _ aware I’m hitting on him? _ There’s a harshness to Yuuri’s tone that’s startling and rather intriguing. Squashing that thought down for later, Viktor whirls quickly, brushing fingertips under Yuuri’s chin. “I’d  _ much _ rather ruin that shirt.” An old lady dodges around them, grumbling. Ignoring pedestrian traffic, Viktor takes his time, enjoying how Yuuri fixes his widened eyes on his hand, following it as Viktor drags it down his front.

“I…need to get going, I’m going to miss--be late.” Yuuri sidesteps and sets off at a quicker pace.

Viktor watches him for a second. The stiffness in his stride is more apparent now that he’s hurrying.  _ You’re long used to hiding that, hmm?  _ It doesn’t pay to broadcast weakness in their line of work, after all.

He hastens back to Yuuri’s side. “Let’s start this over. Who was that babe I saw you with the other night?”

Yuuri frowns. “Minam…? What, you mean  _ Mari? _ She’s my  _ sister _ .”

Viktor feigns surprise. “Gorgeous genes on both sides of your family, it seems.”

“Hckzlw?”

Viktor rubs his index finger against his cheek. “Sorry, I don’t speak much Japanese, what?”

Yuuri gives him an agonised look for a long moment. Then looks up at the blocky arch they’ve drawn level with. “Here.”

They pass into a narrow street covered high above with vaulted panes of glass, shops lining each side and flowing with foot traffic. It doesn’t immediately strike Viktor as a hive of yakuza activity, but what does he know.

“You never told me why you’re in Kagoshima…?”

_ At least he’s finally holding up his end of the conversation.  _ “I’m visiting an old friend.”  _ Not untrue. _

“Must be nice to have the leisure.”

_ You’re terrible at small talk. _ “Actually, I keep quite busy, so it’s nice to take it easy for once. Did you know, he actually runs the bar we met at?”

“Mm?”

“He’s always had his fingers in all sorts of business, but this really seems to suit him, and you should  _ see _ their place… You can see all the way to that big mountain across the bay, what’s it called… Sakujiku?? Whatever, I wanna go there while I’m here. And there’s this bakery in the bottom floor of the building--have you ever heard of…”

Viktor casts a look back at Yuuri.

Who is no longer there.

He should be pissed, but he just laughs.  _ You fucker. You’re really intent on making this difficult. _

_ Now where the hell did you go? And why don’t you want witnesses? _

Whatever else Yuuri might be, he’s bad at noticing he’s being tailed. It takes Viktor longer to pick out who it is he’s following, a bland-looking man who looks like someone’s dad.

_ Shakedowns seem way below your pay-grade… What are you following this guy for? _

Yakov hadn’t said anything about interfering in Kozakura business, but he hadn’t said  _ not _ to. And if Viktor’s completely honest, he has a peevish urge to get Yuuri back for giving him the slip. Again. Viktor narrows his eyes briefly, then puts on a mask of oblivious good humour as he closes in on them in a jagged alley.

“ _ There _ you are! I must have lost you in the cro--”

In a breath, Yuuri whirls on him, grabbing the lapels of Viktor’s coat and dragging him back into the shadow of a doorway.

But he hesitates, nose-to-nose with Viktor and panting faintly.

_ So shy. _ Viktor closes gloved fingers on Yuuri’s hand, dragging it up to press against the wall behind him, angling his head to nose against Yuuri’s cheek convincingly.

There’s silence for half a beat. Viktor bites his tongue then lets his mouth fall open wetly, the tiny sound loud and lewd against the steady hum of traffic.

Behind him, footsteps resume.

Yuuri seems to be hovering somewhere between relief and outrage; Viktor decides not to give him time to decide.

“Were you planning on kissing me, just then?”

Yuuri’s spine goes ramrod-straight, his hand jerking in Viktor’s grasp.

“I’d’ve let you.” He speaks against Yuuri’s skin, low in his register and syrup-thick. Slowly, slowly, he turns Yuuri’s hand, interlacing their fingers; Yuuri catches his breath like Viktor’s just done something incredibly indecent. He can’t resist messing with him a little more, though: Viktor glances back over his shoulder, voice light, “Now, what on earth had you so--”

Yuuri nearly slaps his free hand against his cheek to turn him back and kisses him.

Viktor falls into the kiss with a light groan that surprises him and might be embarrassing if he wasn’t too busy enjoying Yuuri’s lips. Yuuri relaxes palpably, as if he’d been expecting rejection; another detail to be examined later, later, when he’s not busy snaking his free hand up under Yuuri’s coat to curl around his waist, when he’s not luxuriating in the bite of Yuuri’s glasses against his nose and concrete against his knuckles.

Something intrudes, freezes Yuuri’s lips and hands. Abruptly, he turns his face away, pushing Viktor back even with one hand still gripping his coat.

“We…we should get out of here.”

Viktor doesn’t bother to hide his petulance. “I’m not moving until you agree to go on a date with me.”

“What?! No!” Yuuri gives him a harder shove.

“I wasn’t being serious, just getting you to loosen up…”

“You…you’re full of crap!”

Viktor shakes his head, stepping in again. “Okay, okay. No more manipulation.”  _ Hah. _ “Just: will you go on a date with me?”

Yuuri screws up his face like he’s in physical pain, fighting some internal war that Viktor can only guess at.

“Look,” he flicks his hair back, “I don’t see what’s so difficult about this. I’m attractive,  _ you’re  _ attractive, the other night was fun. At least, it seemed like you had fun? I’d love to have another go and make sure.”

Yuuri’s tension ramps up until it’s like an electric charge in the air, and then just…dissipates. Viktor’d like to think it’s due to his expert seductive skills. Whatever the case, he’ll press his advantage, leaning into Yuuri and dragging a hand heavily down his chest before pushing up under his coat. Yuuri makes the most beautiful little breathy noise when Viktor’s fingertips find the waistband of his pants and the softness over his hip, and god, he’s almost ready to jack him off right here with the evening’s shadows falling around them.

“I…I need to go…” Yuuri’s voice is beautifully weakened, the sound of a man holding against temptation by only a thread.

Viktor rubs his thumb along Yuuri’s waistband, then lets it slide down the front of his pants. “Can I at least give you my number? I’m tired of hanging around outside your studio like a stalker.”

“Y…yeah…”

They pull out phones. Then both have an almost imperceptible moment of hesitation. Clean phones and language barriers aside, cloaking oneself is a hard habit to break.

But Yuuri taps a couple times before handing him the phone. “Here, type it…”

Once they’ve got their own phones back, Viktor pulls Yuuri close. He kisses his cheek chastely, nuzzling against him. “I hope you’ll call soon.” Then, before Yuuri can react, he steps back down the alley.

On the main street, Viktor shakes out a smoke, feeling tension he hadn’t let himself notice before evaporate from his limbs.  _ That went…well, different than I expected. Better? Debateable. _ He pulls his phone back out to navigate to the nearest train station.

Something’s nagging at the back of his mind, something he’d seen in a flash before his attention was thoroughly monopolised by Yuuri. A half moon of face starting to look back at them, casual curiosity on the features. A face he remembers, but from where?

Viktor stands stock still, phone held loosely and cigarette burning lazily between his fingers, a photo paper-clipped to a page swimming out of his memory.

_ That was one of their own. Why was he following one of their own? _

Fortune seems to be conspiring in his favour today. Now, if only she could work her magic directly on Yuuri Katsuki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOO. this is my first time actually finishing a f/f scene; I hope it was enjoyable!!
> 
> poor viktor, he's got his work cut out for him;;;;
> 
> a boring note about safer sex: I generally try to set a good example in fics wrt safer sex, while at the same time being realistic about what people actually do and keeping in mind the characters' personalities and relationships. barrier methods are a++ for everyone pls take care of urselves and any partner(s) u may have


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is past my bedtime QAQ
> 
> thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos on this fic! I really appreciate every one, even when I don't respond~<3

[Video: What initially appears to be an unnecessary close-up of a fruit tree, daubs of light and dark green layered in morning sunlight. There’s a small moving shadow, then two scaly bird feet close on a branch, making it swing wildly. Before the bird can hop further down in the tree, mouths erupt from a darker smudge caught in the crook of a branch, necks straining and beaks stretched wide as they cheep out a frenzied chorus.]

Guang Hong’s in the process of typing in “Operation Nestwatch, day 8!” when he’s interrupted by someone leaning their weight on the back of his office chair.

“What’s that?”

Guang Hong nearly drops his phone, convulsively hitting the home button. Not that he particularly thinks Leo’s going to flip out over him posting things during work hours, which it barely is yet anyway. “It’s…” Cautiously, he reopens the app and shows Leo the video. “Outside the second-story men’s room, there’s a bird’s nest.”

“What?!” Leo grabs the edge of the phone, steadying it so he can look closer. His hand is about as far from Guang Hong’s fingers as possible. Not that Guang Hong’s paying attention. “Ahh, I wanna go get a look, if I can…but I don’t wanna disturb them…”

"Oh, they'll be bothered? Ahh, what if I've been--"

Mila’s office door thunks open. Guiltily, Guang Hong turns, dropping his phone face-down on his desk.

“Thought I heard you come in, Ji,” she says, not lifting her head.

He dips his chin in a quick bow. She looks…rough, and he’s pretty sure that’s the same red shirt she was wearing the day before. And yet there’s a strange smug aura radiating from her.

“Good morning, Inspector. You look like you need a coffee.”

She swings her head up heavily, smiling at him like he’s offered her fresh water in a desert. “You are a blessing. What did I do to deserve you?” She sways closer, raising a file folder before thinking better of it and pointing with it. “Make that a shot in the dark.  _ Two _ shots. As many shots as they’ll letcha. And cream. Just...get me the biggest size and load that sucker up.”

She seems to finally register Leo’s presence too. He smiles affably and waves.

“Good. You’re here too, ‘m not gonna have to ask twice.” She brandishes the folder at them, eyes closed in a deeply pained expression. “What the hell is this?”

“An interview with a person of interest that describes an alleged homicide?” Leo seems surprisingly unphased by her irritation.

“Some attention-seeking wannabe gangster feeding you guys a line of bullshit, more like.” She squints at Leo. “I expected better instincts out of you.  _ Both _ of you.”

Leo crosses his arms. “Then trust ours. I think it’s worth at least checking out. The kid’s definitely small fry or less, but--”

“I need you grilling old bastards to see which way the distilleries are falling, not stepping on homicide’s toes and wasting my time. I had to spend entire  _ minutes  _ of my life reading this.” Her expression softens. “I’m glad y’all are getting into this whole buddy-cop routine, but try and keep your bonding pointed in the right direction, yeah?”

“Yes, Inspector,” Guang Hong dips his head again, feeling his ears warm as he reaches for the file.

“Oh also!” She waves it at him urgently. “Be a sweetheart and drop by my place for a change of clothes? The idea of being in a car right now is…” As if on cue, she goes a little grey. She swallows heavily, then smiles, bapping him on the head with the folder and saying, “Coffee first, please,” before retreating to her darkened office.

Once Mila’s (probably heart-attack inducing) coffee is procured, Guang Hong heads down to the parkade. Only to find Leo loitering just outside the heavy door.

He eyes him uncertainly. “This isn’t police business, you don’t have to come along.”

Leo shrugs, waving a thick folder. “I can read over transcripts just as easily in the car.”

“Not me. I get carsick.” Guang Hong walks around to the driver’s side.

The whole drive, he can’t help studying Leo whenever there’s a chance. For all that he’s affable and open-seeming, he’s hard to read.

_ Does he… _ like _ me or something?? Why? Just because the Inspector essentially shoved us together and said “play together nicely”? _

“Guang Hong, the light’s changed.”

“Ah, sorry!” Face warm, he fixes his eyes on the street ahead.

He’s been to Mila’s place often enough that her elderly neighbour stops him for small talk. The apartment is nice, but spartan even by Japanese standards. The only things on the walls in the main living space are a large art deco analogue clock that is impossible to read and a framed vintage movie poster. Almost everything is black or white, though it feels more out of laziness than a deliberate design choice. He’s pretty sure the only thing in the kitchen cupboards is cereal.

The bedroom is similarly minimalist, though brightened by the abstracted foxglove print bleeding up the duvet cover and the clothes littered on the floor and spilling out of the closet.

He throws together an outfit and returns to the living room where he’d left Leo, who’s now standing by a bookshelf, fingertips resting lightly on the spines of the books.

“The Inspector,” Leo starts, not turning, “she’s… Am I wrong in thinking she’s queer?”

Guang Hong stiffens. “Er, I really…don’t know if I should answer that…”

“Of course not.” Leo gives a little self-deprecating laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “None of my business, forget I asked. Do you mind if we make a stop on the way back?”

He’s startled by the topic change but relaxes palpably. “No problem.”

He was expecting some lunch place or corner store, but Leo navigates him to park on a side street on the outskirts of downtown. Guang Hong’s not sure whether Leo expects him to wait when he sets off walking towards an alley, but curiousity gets the better of him and he hustles after.

There doesn’t appear to be anything of note here, not even any businesses fronting onto the narrow space. But Leo steps carefully, scanning the ground and up the walls on either side. Guang Hong peers around too, though he’s not sure what they’re looking for.

Until he catches sight of a hank of yellow plastic caught on a bit of loose aluminum siding, the lower half of some kanji still visible.

“What happened here?”

Leo doesn’t seem surprised that he followed, not looking up from where he’s gingerly poking at some trash with the end of a pen. “I’ve been going through reports, trying to corroborate what that kid said. Luckily, this city’s light on corpses--congrats to you on your public order, by the way. And there was one that fit what that kid told us to a T.” He glances at Guang Hong then rises to his feet smoothly. “Case file’s back there in the car, what there is of it. They’ve already decided it was a fight between a pimp and one of his girls that just got out of hand. There’s not much physical evidence, and all they have is a key from some flophouse and that she’s probably an illegal immigrant. The case’ll be forgotten on some back shelf by the end of the week.”

“But you’re not comfortable with that.”

“You are?” Leo fixes him with a rare heavy stare.

Guang Hong shifts uncomfortably. “You think there’s more to it.”

Leo starts to answer, but something back at the entrance to the alley catches his attention. Guang Hong turns just in time to catch an impression of light brown skin and long black hair before whoever was there disappears. They both hang in a moment of readiness, warring with the urge to give chase, but chances are it was just a snoopy neighbour.

Leo shrugs, smiling at him. “Let’s go back to the car. Shouldn’t be discussing sensitive information out here. And it looks like they were right, there’s not much to the scene.” He leads the way back to the car, frowning like something’s still eating at him.

* * *

From behind a telephone pole, Sara watches the car pull back onto the street in the reflection of a makeup compact. Stupid to let herself be seen, but she’d been curious about the guy with the odd Tokyo-ish accent talking to Ji. A foreigner and an unknown, much like Ji, who she only just knew by sight. But the important thing was knowing that someone else was looking into Delia’s case.

She waits for a reasonable amount of time, then casually strolls back to the alley. Officer Handsome Mystery Man was right, there’s not much here; if she hadn’t questioned the nearby shopkeepers and overheard those two, she might not even have pegged this as a potential crime scene.

Sara yawns inelegantly, wishing she’d grabbed another coffee back at the train station. She’s used to late hours, but all-nighters still suck. Especially when they involve poring over online news sites and phoning every hospital and lock-up in the city just in case she was wrong and they weren’t looking at a worst-case scenario.

But no one had a Delia Lacera, not even a Jane Doe matching her description.

The earlier part of the night seems like a far distant memory, like it happened to Sara-who-has-a-life, not Sara-undercover, or…whatever Sara she is right now, half-awake and playing detective from the other side. She can’t let herself think about it yet, think about the implications for her work or her life, think about how gorgeous Mila looked post-sex or what she might look like ensconced in the covers in thin morning light…

She shakes her head before rubbing at her temples with her eyes squinched shut.  _ Focus _ .

The only blood she finds is trace, a couple dried brown droplets and a smear like someone’d punched the wall with already scraped knuckles. Either clean-up’s already been here (not impossible, given the evident distaste displayed by the locals for the whole thing), or however Delia went, it wasn’t bloody.

_ Doesn’t mean it wasn’t violent. I’m so sorry, girl. _

She hadn’t known Delia that well, and hadn’t especially liked what she  _ had _ known. A little two-faced, a little too self-interested, a little too good at getting younger girls like Teresa in her debt. But it’s no different than finding out about the death of a fellow officer. Someone taken too soon by a risky, ugly job, a loss to be mourned and a cautionary tale to remember.

What she  _ can _ tell is this is way off what Teresa’d described as Delia’s regular walk.

Sara narrows her eyes, looking back down the alley.  _ What were you doing here? _ She chews her lower lip.  _ Or maybe that’s the wrong question. What was the bastard who did this to you doing here? _

It’s out of the downtown core but still mostly a commercial area with a smattering of apartments. Potential witnesses few and liable to mind their own business, assuming the crime had happened late at night. But if this were something premeditated, why not take Delia somewhere even more secluded? What was here?

Sara makes a frustrated noise.  _ I need access to the Organised Crimes database, I need to compare known bouryokudan businesses and hangouts.  _ This wasn’t a john losing his temper, this was something careful, this was Business. And when it comes to the women she works with, that means gangs.

The sun’s starting to peep over the tops of the buildings flanking the alley, illuminating one wall and a bit of the ground and catching on something small as she turns her head. Sara crouches down, examining the tiny shards of glass. There isn’t enough to suggest a broken bottle, though perhaps it’s just the leftover after someone cleaned up. Probably irrelevant, but something about it itches at the back of her mind. Sara snaps a photo of it, along with the blood trace and anything else that seems remotely suspect. Which isn’t much.

Feeling like she’s made precious little progress, Sara finally lets herself leave for home and bed.

* * *

Yuri cuts a straight line through Geneva, sparse dancers scattering out of his path. He stalks up to the table where Yakov’s drinking with a handful of Avtoritet (Georgi conspicuously absent), and without saying a word, slaps the phone from the safe on the table.

They fall silent, regarding him with a mixture of baleful stares and bland disinterest. Then one old bastard quirks an eyebrow.

“Boy Wonder broke his toy and wants daddy to get him a new one?”

Yuri clenches his jaw, locking eyes with the man. It’s not long since he would’ve responded with some profanity-laden outburst, but now he has some measure of self-control. He simply memorises the man’s face and mentally notes  _ I will slit you open like a pig one day. _

He puts him and all the others out of his mind to talk to Yakov. “I found this on the job last week--”

“The job you pretty much fucked up?”

Yuri doesn’t dignify that with a response, though his eye twitches.

Yakov picks up the phone, pressing buttons to little response. “A broken piece of shit.”

Yuri nods curtly. “Broken, but that hacker nerd still stripped data off it.” He tugs the satchel off his shoulder, opening it and propping it up to show the tablet inside, opened to a list of names and contact info. “It’s a black book, and then some. She was recording these old pervs fucking her.”

A few noses wrinkle at his phrasing, but Yakov sits up straighter, pulling the tablet to him. He reads silently for a moment, then glances at Yuri from beneath his brows. “These are some powerful names.”

Yuri cracks a smile. “Yeah, a lot of ‘em are government, and--”

“Show some discretion.” Yakov soothes the verbal slap on the next breath, catching Yuri’s eyes and saying, “You did well.” He flicks his hand dismissively.

Something akin to panic ratchets in his gut. Yuri slaps his palms down on the table, leaning in. “Don’t you want to know where I found it? I could--”

“You are done here, little brother.”

And just like that, the wall slams down.

All he can do is salvage as graceful of a retreat as possible, stalking away from their table with his back straight. It’s not something Yuri’s in the habit of thinking, but right now, he could really use a drink.

Except when he can see past his rage to the people behind the bar, he stops dead in his tracks.

_ What the hell?? _

There’s a couple bartenders working tonight, a thirty-something woman with immaculate loose curls, and…

And the stone-faced weirdo musician from the other night.

Yuri narrows his eyes, jamming his fists into his hoodie pockets. The other bartender’s moving to the far end of the L-shaped bar, and the crowd’s still sparse enough that it’d be completely obvious if he skirts around to her. He starts to turn away; not like he even really wanted that drink, anyway--

“Is that a look of love on your face, or do you have indigestion?”

He wants to see goddamn Viktor Nikiforov a thousand times less than DJ Bardouche but at least it’s a comfortable, familiar kind of detestation. “Not everyone is looking to crawl up the first piece of ass they see. Shouldn’t you not be talking to me?”

“Perhaps I just overheard you talking and wanted to chat with a fellow Slav. Very bold of Pakhan to meet openly here, by the way, nice move.” Viktor gives him a sly look from behind his hair. “But that bartender  _ does _ constitute a ‘piece of ass’?”

“What? I never said that!” When he lunges closer, Viktor just looks amused. “Get out of my damn face, you slimey washed-up ageing--”

“Yes, yes, Yuratchka, very cutting, I’m impressed.” Viktor grabs his shoulders, patting at him as he steers him to the bar. “Let me help.”

“Shove your help up your ass!” He attempts to jerk away from Viktor’s grasp, but it’s like his hand and arm are iron. And his other hand is waving for the attention of DJ Bardouche.

_ I am going to kill you I am going to kill you I am going to peel off your goddamn skin and feed it to my cat in front of you-- _

“What can I get you?”

He’s pissed enough that it takes him a second to notice this asshole’s speaking in Russian. Before he can bite out a reply, Viktor beams at the guy. “I’ll have another glass of that shochu you gave me last time, and Yuratchka here will have a Shirley Temple.”

“Like  _ hell _ I will!”  _ Is it just me, or is he staring at Viktor’s hand? _ “Gimme vodka, straight.”

Viktor tsks. “Yuri! It’s a bad idea to be rude to the person pouring your drink. Apologise to…” he frowns politely at the bartender, “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

Yuri has the distinct feeling he’s just been played like a flute.

He stomps on Viktor’s foot.

Exasperatingly, Viktor’s smile just widens.

“You don’t have anything to apologise for,” the bartender says, looking only at Yuri as he sets a shot glass and a slightly larger gently tapered cup on the bar. “It’s Otabek.”

Yuri knows Viktor well enough to catch the shift from feigned interest to genuine nosiness. “Oh? That’s an unusual name for these parts…”

“Yes,” Otabek replies, eyes still unwavering on Yuri.

Yuri desperately wants to kick someone. Again. He grabs the now-full shot glass and turns to lean back against the bar.

Viktor attempts some more small talk accompanied by the clack of coins but then mercifully releases all of them from this torture, turning to face out into the club as well. Yuri glances over at him, but surprisingly, Viktor’s looking at his phone with a bemused expression. Yuri throws back the shot and then drops it back on the bar without looking.

Unfortunately, he  _ does _ catch sight of Viktor’s phone screen.

“Why is someone with my name drunk texting you?”

“It’s not like you own it,” Viktor replies, shoving the phone in his face so he’s forced to fully take in the horrors it displays.

>  Yuri: im drink  
>  *drenk  
>  *fuck  
>  wanna do that  
>  w.me  
>  fuck I mena  
>  not drink  
>  though u could u di that too I guesss

Yuri glares over at him, voice dripping with disgust. “You made me read that with my own two human eyes.”

Viktor beams at him. “Cute, no? I thought I had my work cut out for me with this one, but apparently alcohol is my best friend.” He raises his glass as if toasting, then downs the whole thing. “Lovely talking to you, Yuri, but boot--ah, duty calls.” He sets his glass down and waves. “Bye! Remember that flirting with someone generally goes better if you don’t look like you’re going to murder them!”

“I’m  _ not _ trying to--” Viktor’s already out of earshot.

Yuri scowls at his back. Now if he leaves immediately, he’s risking more conversation with that insufferable airhead. But the alternative…

He takes out his phone. Then reconsiders and turns back towards the bar, holding it close to his chest.

> whiteTiger: hey  
>  got something else for you to check up on
> 
> limecola: :-D :-D  
>  whats up?
> 
> whiteTiger: someone I mean  
>  just got one name idk if it’s first or last: otabek  
>  he’s supposed to be some kind of dj or something
> 
> limecola: got it  
>  anything in particular im lookin for?
> 
> whiteTiger: no
> 
> limecola: he got something to do with that phone?  
>  dont remember the name from the list but i just skimmed it
> 
> whiteTiger: no  
>  look this isn’t anything official I just got a feeling and I need more info
> 
> limecola: righto!  
>  ill keep it on the dl :-)

Feeling extremely generous, Yuri sends a thank you, then finally lifts his eyes.

He’s utterly unsurprised to find unreadable brown eyes fixed on him.

Yuri stares back in challenge, but rather than back down, Otabek crosses over to him.

“You need another drink?”

“I’m good.”

Otabek fidgets briefly with something behind the bar. “Your friend ditched you.”

“He’s not my friend.”

Otabek’s lips curve in a slight smile, peculiarly startling. “I think Viktor only has the one.” He picks something up off the bar and sets it in front of Yuri: a small flyer for a show. “I’m playing next week at--”

“I’m busy.” Despite himself, he scans the paper; all he can read are the date and time, one of the names, and the club’s name printed in English under the characters. When he looks up, Otabek’s watching him levelly again, no hint of annoyance anywhere. Except that there’s a bare second when he blinks and looks off to the side where he almost looks--disappointed? sad?--but it’s gone before Yuri can tell for sure in the low light.

_ He really that hard-up for fans? _

Otabek taps the flyer once and pushes it marginally towards him. “Think about it. Got a friend playing that might be more your speed. See ya.” And with that, he turns and walks away.

Yuri squints at the flyer for a few seconds, but stubbornly leaves it there.  _ Whatever, it’s not like I can’t remember the name of a club. _ He spares one glance for the table of old bastards, still hunched around the table in debate, then flees out into the night.

* * *

 

Viktor gives the building an assessing look as he gets out of the cab. It looks…more like somewhere university students would live. He wrinkles his nose, looking for the door.

There’s always a possibility Yuuri will have changed his mind and/or sobered up by now, but at the very least, it’s a chance to infiltrate further into his space. Once you’ve been invited in once, it’s easier to talk your way in a second time.

This is, of course, pure business.

There’s long silence after he presses the buzzer. Viktor pulls a face and presses it again. A crash from inside, followed by what he assumes from the tone is swearing. Then the door swings in.

Yuuri weaves in front of a kitchen counter, a ludicrously large bottle in one hand. He’s wearing a plain forest green tee, no pants, and one sock. At one point, his hair had been combed back neatly. The overall effect should be humourous, but instead Viktor finds himself staring at Yuuri’s thighs and swallowing.

“You actually…came??” Yuuri bats his glasses straight and squints at him as though not entirely sure he’s real.

“Are you going to invite me in or not?” There’s a sharp edge to his voice that he doesn’t love.

Yuuri gives him another bleary blink, then steps back, bowing with surprising grace and slurring out something in Japanese Viktor assumes means ‘come in’. The door starts to swing shut as he peels off his coat but before he can, Yuuri slams into him.

Alarm bells go off in his head but only for a second because Yuuri slings an arm around his neck and kisses him like his life depends on it.

Viktor staggers back with Yuuri’s arm winding around his neck, shucking out of his sleeves and dropping his coat to the floor. The bottle smacks into his ass, Yuuri using his arm around Viktor’s waist to propel him back, back, deeper into the dimly-lit apartment.

Something soft hits the back of his calves so he sits. A chair, but no time to consider that further because Yuuri is sliding into his lap and taking a heavy draught from the bottle so that his lips taste like unfamiliar alcohol when they kiss again. Viktor sighs out a breath, shoving his hands up under Yuuri’s shirt to feel the vital urgency racing under his skin. His eyes flick open, mind straying to the waves he’d seen licking their way up Yuuri’s bare thighs and the memory of bitemarks outlining red and black ink.

_ Didn’t you see them in the morning and wonder? Or is this such a habit that it was unremarkable? _

He shrugs the thought off, dragging his hands down to grab at Yuuri’s ass. Yuuri tilts his hips back, and Viktor can feel how hard he is already, too tempting not to grope. His blood hasn’t stopped rushing since Yuuri first barrelled into him, pushing and pumping him full and ready and already aching to grind against Yuuri’s soft thighs. Or his ass or hell, chest, anywhere, or god, god, slide into his mouth, and Yuuri in his, and bodies knotted together and then the possibilities of what might be are washed away in the face of Yuuri panting out an eager noise against his lips and reaching down between them to grab at his cock.

Golden lamplight catches on the lenses of Yuuri’s glasses, knocked hopelessly askew. His knees squeeze tight around Viktor’s hips as he sits back, fixing him with a heavy stare while still lazily groping his dick. He holds the bottle loosely balanced on the chair’s arm, dangling at a concerning angle; fortunately, it appears to be mostly empty.

“I los’ that first time…didn’ remember,” Yuuri grabs the front of his sweater, yanking Viktor nose-to-nose, “so  _ this  _ time…you better make me remember it.”

A little thrill runs down his spine. Viktor quirks a smile, wresting the bottle out of Yuuri’s fingers and taking a long swig. He leans forward, setting it on the floor, face squashed against Yuuri’s front for a moment before he peers up at him. “I’ve never been propositioned in quite such a threatening manner before.” He gathers Yuuri against him, kissing under his chin. “I’m going to make sure you remember every. Last. Second.” Each word punctuated with a kiss, and his hand stealing down to rub Yuuri’s dick eagerly.

Yuuri arches, hands flexing on his shoulders and then grabbing at his sweater again. Viktor releases him long enough to let him pull it over his head, toeing off his shoes when Yuuri tugs on his shirt too. He shakes out his hair then immediately gets his hands back on Yuuri, heavily petting his inner thighs either side of his cock with barely restrained impatience.

“I want…” If Yuuri finishes his thought, it’s lost against Viktor’s shoulder, his lips moving with silent purpose. Abruptly, he shoves himself away, slipping off Viktor’s lap and to the floor. Viktor starts to grab for him but thinks better of it, and besides, Yuuri’s either fine or too drunk to care about a few bruises. Viktor hopes he put the bottle far enough away.

Yuuri lurches to the side, half-flinging his glasses onto a coffee table and then groping among the life shrapnel strewn on it. When he sits back on his heels, he’s holding a familiar foil packet and reaching for Viktor’s fly. Viktor settles back in the chair, legs spreading unconsciously, watching him curiously with his lips pressed together in a smile.

Shy and uncertain as he seems most of the time, Yuuri is a man on a mission right now. He wrestles Viktor’s cock free and rolls the condom down on him with an intense focus that would be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn hot.

Whether it’s nerves or a take-no-prisoners strategy, Yuuri swallows him deep. Viktor gasps, one foot skidding on the floor as he tenses, then buries a hand in his warm hair.

It’s not the most artful blowjob he’s ever had, but enthusiasm can outweigh finesse. It’s squishy and soft and wet in a way that makes him burn to lose the thin separation of latex, and the whole time Yuuri making faces like he’s the one being given a gift. Viktor’s riveted, can’t resist touching his face, tracing those ephemeral expressions and the hollow of Yuuri’s cheek as he sucks. It’s adoration that begs to be rewarded. He lets one foot drag over Yuuri’s thigh to press with luxuriant slowness against his hard-on.

Yuuri shudders delightfully, one hand splaying on Viktor’s calf. He lets Viktor’s dick slide from his mouth, eyes slitting open on darkness for a second before he mashes his face against his inner thigh and then sucks him in again.

Viktor lets his head loll back, flexing his foot lazily. The loose fabric of Yuuri’s underwear and softness of his thighs give him plenty of play, letting him reacquaint himself with the shape of him. Though now that he thinks about it, he’d never gotten his hands on him properly.  _ In, _ yes. Viktor quirks a smile, tilting his hips along with the slide of Yuuri’s mouth.

The memory plants a seed of hunger in him that branches out and climbs his spine until he’s sliding down in the chair and coaxing Yuuri to look up at him.

“Yuuri…” He wedges his hands in the waistband of his pants, bracing both feet on the floor to lift his hips. “Let’s… I want you to…” Looking at Yuuri kneeling attentively between his legs with his tongue stealing out to wet his lips, all Viktor can think is having him just fucking take him right there, pants around his ankles and feet up in the air and neck crunched with his head jammed against the back of the chair. He plucks at Yuuri’s arm, still trying to wriggle out of his pants. “I want…”

Yuuri just stares at him for a second before abruptly yanking down Viktor’s pants. It wasn’t what he’d intended but it’s still an excellent idea. Viktor wiggles his feet free of fabric and then without missing a beat, hooks one leg over Yuuri’s shoulder.

He makes his best attempt at repeating what Yuuri’d said when he let him in.

Yuuri gives him a look of utter incomprehension.

Then snorts.

Then full-on laughs, hiding his face behind one hand and against Viktor’s thigh.

Viktor is entranced; not the reaction he’d been going for, but maybe better. “…What did I just say?”

“Tha’s like…what you say…what a shopkeeper says when you come in…”

“So not especially sexy.” Not that he feels particularly sexy at this precise moment, legs akimbo while Yuuri still snickers.

“No.” Yuuri scratches at his cheek thoughtfully. “I bet there’s porn of it, though…”

“Well.” Decisively, Viktor bends his legs around Yuuri, pulling him in. “The execution was off, but you catch my drift…?”

Rather than grope him more, Yuuri flops against his shoulder, wedging his arms around his back.

Something about it just serves to remind him this isn’t supposed to be happy goof-off time, this is a means to a serious end. And yet despite that, or perhaps in aid of keeping things mechanical, his breath hitches at the feeling of Yuuri’s dick pressing against his ass through the faint barrier of fabric.

“Yuuri…” He paws him back enough that he can kiss him, breaking apart on a gasp. “ _ Please _ tell me you’ve got lube handy too.”

Yuuri’s hand creeps down between them, squashed between his hip and Viktor’s ass. “Think I brought it…wazzn sure we’d make it t’ the bedroom…  _ Hoped _ we wouldn’t…”

“This is becoming a pattern. You got something against beds?”

“Beds are nice…?” Yuuri rocks back on his heels, swatting around on the table until he finds what he’s looking for. He squeezes some out into his palm, scooping some up on his fingers before reaching for Viktor’s ass. And curling the other hand beautifully, beautifully around his cock. Viktor lets him stroke it a few times before plucking his hand away so he can strip off the condom.

“Whaddif I wanna suck you off again?” Yuuri says in a peculiarly stern voice at odds with his adorably sulky expression.

“Please, for the love of god, tell me you have more than two condoms.”

“Prolly??”

Viktor snorts. “I guess that’ll do.” He closes Yuuri’s hand around his cock, still slick enough to have him rolling his hips luxuriantly as Yuuri slowly strokes him. And then Yuuri smoothly, smoothly pushes two fingers inside.

He wants to enjoy being fingered like this but he’s impatient, impatient for full skin-on-skin, impatient to feel Yuuri shuddering against him and in him. Viktor flexes back on Yuuri’s fingers, then reaches between them to fumble Yuuri’s dick out of his underwear. He’s less jerking him off than just groping and squeezing but it’s enough to bring Yuuri to full, intoxicating hardness against his palm. Yuuri grits out a quiet noise, rubbing his own palm against Viktor’s shaft, touch almost too heavy as his hips twitch forward.

He might regret it in the morning but right now Viktor has one desire. He draws Yuuri closer with a dragging stroke up his dick, squeezing his legs around him.

“Fuck me.”

Yuuri’s head snaps up and he stares at Viktor as though he’s said something incredibly lewd for a second but then sits back on his knees. Viktor brings his feet down until the balls rest on the floor, the rustle of another condom package quiet under their panted breaths.

And then Yuuri’s up between his thighs again and smearing a last dollop of lube on his ass before gingerly guiding himself in.

It shouldn’t feel so good. He  _ is _ cramped awkwardly and the chair’s soft but not  _ that _ comfortable and his hair’s caught on something and oh god, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care.

He wraps his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders, drawing him down until his forehead rests against his lips. Mouth quirking in a smile, he whispers, “Did you ever in a million years imagine doing this?”

Yuuri throws himself back. Then leans in, squinting at Viktor unreadably. His mouth opens on one soft gasp and then he curls over to bury his face against Viktor’s chest.

_ Oh no. _

Right now he can’t put a name to that dismay so he just tangles a hand in Yuuri’s hair and curls his legs a little tighter above his hips. Yuuri pumps into him with a steady, heavy rhythm that leaves him squirmily arching as if to goad him faster. His dick is trapped between them with each thrust, and when he hauls up the front of Yuuri’s shirt, sliding against his tummy, and god, Viktor wants to watch it, wants to see their bodies knit together, but all he can see when he opens his eyes is Yuuri’s slim shoulders and his thick hair wound through his fingers and the t-shirt riding up his back and down to where Viktor’s shins form a shadowy v and then he lets his legs fall apart to see that gorgeous ass tense and relax with the slightest jiggle and he’s completely forgotten what his original thought was. Everything is slidy-squishy-perfect, inside and out. He reaches up the back of the chair, grabbing for purchase, legs wrapped loosely around Yuuri’s hips again.

Yuuri rears up, giving Viktor a look that he can only describe as smouldering. He tugs on Viktor’s thigh until he hooks one leg, then the other, over Yuuri’s shoulders. He can’t fuck against him now, but it’s more than made up for by the visual, by the fine droplet of sweat on Yuuri’s neck catching the lamplight and the plush wetness of his lower lip as he exhales heavily.

Viktor fits his palm against Yuuri’s cheek, thumb smoothing across to drag at his lip and then slip just inside, nail scraping his teeth. “I liked being inside you.”

Yuuri gives a little shiver, turning away from his hand as if to hide, but Viktor won’t let him, cupping his face in both hands. He draws him in, stretching to reach his lips.

Abruptly, Yuuri sits back, pulling out and leaving Viktor’s feet thumping to the floor. “Um…I…want to change positions,” Yuuri explains, tugging on Viktor’s hip.

He’s perplexed but perfectly happy to go along, turning over and leaning his forearms on the seat. Tucking his hair behind one ear, he peers over his shoulder, only to find Yuuri morosely considering the alcohol bottle.

Viktor pulls a pout. “Yuu-ri!”

With a start, Yuuri looks back at him. He drains the bottle, which at least gives Viktor plenty of time to admire his throat, then drops it to the side and shuffles forwards, wrapping one arm around Viktor’s waist. Viktor remains in his awkward craned-around pose for a few seconds longer, but Yuuri just nuzzle against his back; he’s more put out than he would’ve expected, but not like it would have been a  _ good _ kiss like this anyway.

Yuuri’s fingers then dick slide against his ass, all with a fresh coating of lube that has Viktor arching back eagerly. Yuuri pushes in with a tight exhale, grabbing at Viktor’s ass. He groans loudly, sitting back against Yuuri to push him deeper. Yuuri’s hips twitch, then roll back gloriously. Then snap forwards.

Viktor tips his head back, giving self-indulgent voice to his pleasure. Yuuri fucks him hard and fast now, his one arm slipping up til he can grab Viktor’s shoulder. His other hand meanders over Viktor’s hip then slides down to wrap around his dick. Viktor’s toes spread against the floor; Yuuri’s mostly just groping at him but it’s more than enough to send him rocketing towards the edge. Viktor shoves himself upright, bonking into Yuuri’s nose and probably giving him a mouthful of hair but he’s riding the white-hot rush of it, barely tethered by the hand clamped at his shoulder. He grabs Yuuri’s wrist, pushing it and his dick up against his body as he comes.

Yuuri fucks him through it, still somehow conveying a hushed awe. Viktor bites down hard on his lip for a long exquisite moment, then with a punch of breath drops forward on one arm. Yuuri stills briefly, then flops forward to fit against his back with a soft sigh, letting go of his dick to curl that arm around his chest.

But Viktor has no time for basking. He grabs hold of Yuuri’s shirt, twisting the fabric and yanking. Not that Yuuri takes much persuading.

He loves the melty clarity of these moments almost as much as getting off. Loves having so much bare skin against his own and even the sweaty bunched fabric cutting across his back, loves listening to the tight smothered little gasps from Yuuri that tell him it won’t be long now. Loves the slick feeling inside and even the overstimulation, feelings of  _ stop _ and  _ never stop _ blending together and keeping him tense and shivery. Loves keeping his body straight so he doesn’t smear the cooling mess on his stomach all over the chair.

Viktor looks over his shoulder, patting at Yuuri’s hip. “Yuuri. Pull out.”

Yuuri makes a confused protesting noise but complies. Viktor pushes himself up, arching, and draws his hair over one shoulder. He watches Yuuri, flushed and panting and his fingers curled around the base of his cock and every shadowed angle of his body screaming  _ need _ .

Viktor licks his lips before smiling. “Wouldn’t you like to come on me again?”

Yuuri somehow turns a deeper shade of red. But momentum seems to wash him past any real hesitation and he hastily rolls off the condom and then takes hold of his dick.

Viktor’s riveted, twisting so he can see as much as possible. Yuuri’s free hand is splayed on his ass and Viktor feels it go rigid a split second before heat splatters his ass and up to the small of his back. Yuuri is beautiful, eyes just barely slit open but locked on Viktor’s face and his entire body heaving with each breath, with each last stroke up his dick.

He’d been intending to give him a visual he’d remember but Viktor has a feeling it’ll be him calling this image to mind when he’s twisting in the sheets.

But the thought is washed away, replaced by sleepiness soaking into his muscles. All he wants now is to somehow manage getting them clean and in a bed. Heaving a great sigh, he pushes himself to his feet, swaying a little as he turns to Yuuri.

“Mind if I use your shower?”

Still looking dazed, Yuuri nods slowly, gesturing towards what Viktor assumes is the bathroom. He staggers away.

Viktor scrubs himself down with ruthless efficiency; it’s his first encounter with Japanese-style showers and he finds them well-suited to this. He has the passing thought  _ I wonder if Yuuri knows where the good hot springs are _ as he towels himself off. He does the best he can for his teeth with a finger and some toothpaste and then steps back out into the apartment proper.

He starts through the bedroom door, but doesn’t see Yuuri. Poking his head around the corner, he finds him curled up on another chair, face shadowed and still miraculously wearing that one sock.

Viktor just watches him for a brief moment. There’s something about the sky-high walls Yuuri has around himself that just  _ beg _ to be knocked down and torn apart. But he can’t tell whether that’s some professional instinct or just his own curiousity getting the better of him.

Viktor frowns to himself.  _ I’m still ahead of this, right? _

With a shrug, he makes himself smile sharply. “You coming, or do you really hate beds that much?”

Yuuri jumps like he’s been shocked before giving Viktor a look as though he’s forgotten all English. Feeling oddly impatient, Viktor just turns and steps into the bedroom.

Yuuri’s bed is exquisitely soft or at least it feels that way right now. Viktor wriggles his way under the blanket with a groan, letting his eyes fall shut. He can hear Yuuri clattering around in the bathroom; it’s not long before he pads into the room and slips into the bed behind him.

Viktor’s expecting to feel arms around him and a warm body against his back but it doesn’t come. After a few minutes, he rolls over to his other side to look.

Yuuri’s faced away from him, still wearing his shirt, his ribcage expanding with each sleep-slow breath. Everything about him is snuggly-looking and Viktor feels distinctly cheated. But he doesn’t bridge those few hand’s breadths of sheet between them, just closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long since the last update orz

Viktor’s always been an early riser.

Not that he doesn’t like being in bed, especially on mornings like this. He awakens to molasses warmth pooled in his limbs and stomach, the scent of sex still heavy on Yuuri’s skin in an intoxicating haze that makes even the thought of rising seem profane. He nuzzles into that, pleased when his nose squashes against bare flesh. He has a vague memory of Yuuri coming to bed clothed, and gropes sleepily until he ascertains that some helpful and probably still asleep person has shoved Yuuri’s shirt up. Viktor smiles drowsily, fitting his hand against the softness of Yuuri’s chest under the rumpled fabric.

Yuuri grumbles a faint protest and paws at his hand but does not breach the surface of sleep. Viktor’s on the verge of taking it as an invitation to handholding when some unkind part of his mind cuts through.

_ This is work. _

_ If you’re careful, it can also be pleasure, but it’s work first. _

Feeling incredibly sulky, he opens his eyes.

And swallows a startled noise.

Not like it’s especially frightening, he just wasn’t expecting to get a faceful of lavishly-rendered skull first thing in the morning. Viktor cranes back to look more fully at the tattooing covering Yuuri’s back.

The snake coiling its way around his shoulders and hips bares its fangs just below his right shoulder blade, sinking them into the head of a contorted skeletal ghost clawing at it with spindly arms. Framing them are sprays of palm-sized peony blossoms, fat and pink and beautiful against the dark pointy leaves. Rather than dwarfing the entangled figures, they make the whole scene seems monstrous, pulsing slowly with Yuuri’s breath.

_ These mean something, don’t they? It’s gotta be online somewhere… _ It’s probably not relevant, but that doesn’t make him any less curious.  _ Don’t yakuza usually have full-body tattoos? I guess he  _ is  _ still pretty young… _ With his eyes, he traces down to where leaves give way to a fan of waves. Viktor props himself up on one elbow to survey, but the only other tattoo he can see is a twisted knot of thin, leafless stems or perhaps roots choking their way around Yuuri’s one visible arm against a roiling black background. Part of the tattoo is still hidden under Yuuri’s sleeve, though, and he’s pretty sure it’d be pushing his luck to try and get a look.

When he should really be taking advantage of this opportunity.

Carefully, Viktor eases out of the bed. Yuuri barely stirs, and Viktor stops long enough to give him a bemused smile before slipping out into the apartment, drawing the door shut behind him.

First priority is establishing an alibi. He rummages through the kitchen cupboards until he finds coffee for the coffeemaker, and sets that running before finally letting himself survey the space. He’s itching for a smoke, but time is short and sacrifices must be made.

Last night, he’d been far too distracted to take in anything not pertinent to getting both of them very naked. Now he can see…he wasn’t missing much. The kitchen is reasonably well-outfitted, but most of the pots and utensils lack signs of serious use, and the fridge and cupboards are sparely filled. There’s a couch and a single armchair, mismatched, opposite a middling-size TV with a game system tucked on the shelf underneath, and a desk up against one wall that looks like it was dowdy even at the time it was purchased. He taps the bottle of lube still on the coffee table, smiling to himself, then picks up something he mistakes for a particularly beautiful pen but turns out from its smell to be some kind of tobacco pipe. The only real sign of life or personality beyond that, a small globe, and a few tasteful landscapes, are the plants. They spill out in the light from the balcony doors, climbing onto shelves and trailing from hanging pots and carefully threaded up and around the curtain rod. A significant number are cacti and succulents, and while Viktor doesn’t know much about plants, most of them look easy-maintenance.

He turns his attention to the desk. There’s a Macbook on it, which he’s not especially surprised to find is password protected. At the back are a few textbooks relating to accounting and business from almost a decade ago and a tidy cup with some pens and pencils that has a kitschy cartoon image of a couple in traditional dress, each kicking their legs out cheerily. On the top shelf are more plants and a photo of what looks like Yuuri as a preteen, beaming alongside a ponytailed girl and solid-looking boy around the same age standing in front of a building with a fragment of a name in view above them. Opposite, a photo of a gorgeous miniature poodle with a small incense burner in front of it, dusted with ash.

Viktor gives the photo a wistful smile before forcing himself to move on. The bottom drawer is locked and resists his tentative jostling and poking. But the top one is unlocked, and Viktor’s thrilled until he remembers he can’t read Japanese. The pile of loose papers doesn’t look terribly important anyway as he carefully rifles through them, just the random detritus of life, takeout menus, old mail, a political flier, and--

Viktor stops, staring for a moment before he gingerly slides the glossy print out from under the pile. A familiar face greets him, looking up off camera with arms raised. Scrawled in a corner is the note  _ “Get well soon, Yuuri! --xoxo Viktor” _

He shouldn’t be surprised; Yuuri’d mentioned being a fan. Now that he thinks about it, he’s a little surprised there aren’t  _ more _ promotional images or other fan merchandise scattered around. Not surprised that he has no recollection of autographing this or meeting…

Because he hadn’t. There’d been an email or a post somewhere, maybe both, from someone with a cute name, all about how his bestie was in the hospital and a message of support from his hero would totally make his day. He vaguely recalls a photo, a smiling brown face alongside a flustered bespectacled one against the stark backdrop of a hospital bed. And a name he’d recognised from the list of competitors at that year’s Grand Prix, a newcomer he’d been curious to watch when he made the finals but then couldn’t recall actually seeing at Sochi.

_ You mentioned you skated, not that you were world-class. What kind of person keeps that information to themself? _ Viktor fingers his lips, frowning.  _ You’re like a ghost, like-- _

There’s a loud  _ whump _ from the bedroom.

Viktor tucks the glossy back into the pile, shutting the drawer as silently as possible, and hustles back into the kitchen. He opens cupboards at random, trying to look busy, but stops and turns when he hears the door open. He’s glad he did. Yuuri halts in the doorway, squinting in his direction with a puzzled frown and looking positively adorable. His hair is rumpled and sticking up at odd angles and he has what looks like rug burn on his knees, giving Viktor a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Viktor smiles winsomely, waving a mug.

Yuuri palpably jumps.

Then scrambles back into the bedroom and slams the door.

Viktor bites his lips together, trying desperately not to laugh. Making a quick detour through the living room area, he approaches the door.

“Yuuri?” He tries the knob; it turns easily, but when he pushes the door, it smacks back into place. “I made coffee! What do you normally eat for breakfast?”

No answer.

“Yuuri, let me in?”

“No!”

“My pants are in there.”

“No, they’re not! You took them off out there.”

He clucks his tongue chidingly. “If you recall that much, you should remember you helped with that particular maneuver.” Viktor tries the handle again but doesn’t push. “I have your glasses.”

After a moment, the door swings inward. Yuuri steps out, looking more than a little worse for wear. Viktor holds up the glasses. When Yuuri reaches for them, he grabs him by the wrist, pulling him close and glances (more like smears) a kiss on his temple.

Yuuri grabs at him one-handed to keep his balance, smacking his face against Viktor’s shoulder and keeping it there. Viktor arcs an eyebrow but insistently puts the arm he’s got ahold of around his own waist.

Yuuri straightens, though he doesn’t look up as though the light were too bright for him. Viktor winces, thinking sympathetically of the large bottle still on the floor by the armchair.

He fumblingly slides Yuuri’s glasses on, tipping his face up as he settles them into place. “Go lie down. How do you take your coffee?” Their faces are close, close enough that it’s easier to let his eyes fall shut. Tilt down a little more so his nose nudges against Yuuri’s, against his cheek…

“You’re naked??” Yuuri’s hand twitches against his back and then withdraws, but he doesn’t resist when Viktor catches it and tangles their fingers together.

“I am.” He takes a step forwards, pushing lightly. Breakfast or interrogations or whatever he’d intended to do seem terribly unimportant right now. All that’s worthy of his attention is the warmth of Yuuri palm against his own and his sharp intake of breath and the thought of feeling Yuuri’s skin against his lips again and--

“I…I have to go to work…” Yuuri sounds more panicked than anything and it gives Viktor pause.

Defuse. “Alright, coffee to go and breakfast on the way, and then I can blow you behind your desk. You do have a desk, don’t you?”

Yuuri looks at him as though he’d proposed they dump hot coffee grounds on their heads and run naked through a church.

Viktor searches his face, finally uttering a hopefully quiet sigh. “Look, are you embarrassed about last night?”

Yuuri looks at him like he’s thrown him a lifeline. “ _ Yes. _ ” He shakes his head slowly, looking down. “Just… Please go. I don’t… I can’t…”

Viktor holds him loosely, solemnly watching his flushed face. He should be annoyed, frustrated, but instead he’s just…disappointed. “Okay.” He pulls away to gather his discarded clothes and get dressed. He should know how to do this like the back of his hand, he can see all the buttons to push and strings to pull, but… But Yuuri’s reactions keep taking him by surprise. 

The silence stretches awkwardly between them while a thousand questions beat noisy wings in his head. But he feels certain in this moment Yuuri wouldn’t answer any of them.

Yuuri comes around the kitchen counter, plucking Viktor’s coat off the ground and holding it ready. Yuuri’s completely stone-faced and Viktor can’t tell whether the gesture is apology or eagerness to see him gone. He accepts it, watching Yuuri’s hands sag down at his sides as if in defeat.

Now, bitter anger sparks in him, but anger won’t help him here. He cups Yuuri’s elbow, stepping in to place a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I’ll see you.” Not giving Yuuri time to respond, he turns and slips out the door.

* * *

 

Teresa taps her nails on the mug again, watching her son carry on a squeaky conversation between two stuffed animals on the floor. Sara spares a bemused smile at his tousled black head, then gestures with the carafe again.

“Can I top you up?”

“Mm?” Teresa blinks, then pushes her cup across. “Thanks.” She adds a frightening amount of sugar and then drinks, smiling gratefully.

Sara settles back down and takes a sip of her own. Good coffee’s one of the luxuries she’s never willing to give up. She frowns, examining the dark liquid. “Sorry I don’t have more to tell you. Are you  _ sure _ Delia never mentioned any bad tricks, anything new…”

“It’s okay, it’s okay! This is more than I could’ve figured out on my own.” Teresa beams at her. “You’re like some kinda super-sleuth, Sara!”

She gives a small laugh that hopefully will sound self-deprecating. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

More nail tapping. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Sara stops herself from lunging across the table. “ _ Anything _ could be important, no matter how small. You want to know what happened, don’t you?”

Teresa bites her lip, avoiding Sara’s eyes. “I didn’t wanna tell you. I thought you’d be pissed.” Before Sara can coax her again, she continues, “She was gonna retire. ‘Cept, not totally. Was gonna run her own group of girls. And she wanted me to be one of them.” Her eyes finally flick up, searching for Sara’s reaction.

She looks down at her mug, swirling the liquid. Whatever her real opinion, no good if she scares off a good informant. “I get it.” 

“She’s just…! She was so good to me, when I had Sadi, and I was all messed up…” Teresa’s starting to tear up, looking much more like her nineteen years.

Sara nods, smothering the part of her that thinks  _ yeah, because she knew she could milk you for that down the road. _

“She said she had information to sell, said she was gonna use it to find us a place and set everything up, make sure the…the mob stayed off our backs.” Teresa looks up again, tears welling over. “Oh my god, would they kill her for that? Would they…they don’t just do things like that, do they?”

Sara schools her face.  _ You’ve been on the receiving end of arguably worse. _ “I don’t know. I’ll have to see…I might have a friend who can find out some more information…”

There’s a perfunctory knock on the door and then it swings open. Teresa’s half on her feet in an instant, but Sara just leans back in her chair and regards Mila with disbelief.

“Gooooood morning! Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Mila pulls the door closed behind her and drops a leather messenger bag by it, then comes over to lean on Sara’s chair, snagging her coffee and taking a drink. “Eugh, bitter!”

“You could see it’s black…” Sara takes her cup back, setting it on the table. Teresa’s settled back in her seat, but still watching Mila warily; however much she might cultivate a lackadaisical air, Mila still reeks of cop. Also her badge is at her hip, revealed as she leans forward. Sara gestures up at Mila. “ _ This _ is the friend I was going to talk to.”

“Friend?” She can  _ hear _ Mila pouting.

“Nice to meet you,” Teresa says mechanically, eyes flicking to Sadire. “It’s. I better get home so I can put Sadi down for his nap.”

“Of course.” Sara winces a smile, dodging out from under Mila’s arm to help wrestle Sadi into his shoes and jacket. He gives her a gooey smooch on the nose, and Teresa gives her a tense hug, and then they’re off.

And Sara’s left turning to look at Mila filling a mug of her own at the counter. She’s left her jacket hanging on Sara’s chair so now she can fully appreciate the open lacework back of Mila’s satiny black blouse. Her fingers twitch, touch-eager, and she hides them behind her back, suddenly wishing she was wearing something a bit more attractive than sweats and a hoodie.

“They’re cute.” Mila sits in Sara’s chair, crossing her legs and beaming at her.

“Mila. You can’t be here.”

“Yeah, but I am.” Irrefutable point made, Mila sips her coffee, raising her eyebrows. “For all your friend knows, I’m a client.”

“Women don’t use prostitutes, women have friends.” Despite every ounce of professionalism screaming that she needs to put a stop to this right now, she drifts closer to the table.

“And better sex toys, amirite?” Mila leers, setting her cup down on the table.

Sara raises an eyebrow. “Are you speaking personally, here? Is this a promise?”

“Absolutely. Not that I need ‘em.” Despite her smug words, Mila’s flushing prettily, eyes locked on Sara’s approach. “But you know that already.”

Sara drapes her hands on the back of the chair and bends down slowly, stopping nose-to-nose with Mila, hair falling softly around them like a curtain backdrop. “You. Can’t. Be. Here.”

Mila holds her gaze. “Do you want me to be, though?”

Sara straightens, turning away. “You’re not being fair.” She drops into the other chair, reaching for her coffee. “If-- _ if _ \--this was going to be anything, now is not the time.”

“Given the kind of work you do, is there ever going to be a right time?” Mila props her chin on the backs of her hands. “At least right now, we’re a little less likely to get walked in on by your brother.”

Sara sinks her face in her hands. “Oh my god, don’t remind me of that…” And now she’s just thinking about that smug asshat on the boat…

_ I feel like I make bad decisions when I’m with you. But maybe that’s the appeal. _

Sara leans back, crossing her arms. “You can  _ not _ get in the way of my work. Like you did just now.” Pointedly, she tips her head at the clock. “And  _ I  _ shouldn’t be getting in the way of yours.”

Mila perks up comically. “Okay! Keep my visits to non-business hours. Will do. By the way,” Mila leans her elbows on the table, “Was that your friend from the other night?”

“Mm-hm.”

Mila grimaces sympathetically. “She was close with that other girl, yeah? I actually looked into it a little, even though it’s not ours.” She lays a finger along her cheek, almost as if shielding herself while relaying some workplace gossip. “Seems she was strangled with a ligature not found at the scene. Very little physical evidence at the scene, signs point to something gang-related.”

Sara nods, curling a loose fist in front of her mouth as Mila hops to her feet and fetches her bag from the door. “So basically, they have nothing and it’s going nowhere.”

“Not quite.” Mila opens a manila folder, spreading out some train station CCTV stills. She taps a figure, tall, pale hair tucked into the hood of his coat, wearing a toque and sunglasses that conceal what little of his face is visible from this angle. The other photos show the same man moving amongst the crowd, showing little more of his features. “He’s obnoxiously good at avoiding cameras, but when he came through Tokyo, his passport was automatically flagged. A known alias of this man. And his M.O. matches.”

Mila slides across another folder, this one containing a dossier, and…a couple of what look distinctly like pictures from a professional magazine shoot. “Suspected Bratva hitman. I know they’ve been in town, but it seemed like they were holding back…”

“I thought so too, figured they’d wait for the domestics to wear each other out first. But seems like something’s changed.”

Sara thumbs through the pages, frowning. “Can I hang on to this?”

“Why?” Mila leans towards her, fixing her with an earnest stare. “I’m just saying, be careful. He’s dangerous, and no telling what other weaponry they’ve got up their sleeves. Leave it to us.”

Sara glances up. “You said you didn’t even have the case.”

Mila starts gathering the stills. “Have some faith in the team. We’ve got Mr. Hotshot American now, after all!”

Sara bites her tongue before she comments that “hotshot” doesn’t seem a good descriptor for the quiet man she’d seen in the alleyway.

“Anyway, I just thought it might help you to have a description of the suspect. Here,” she tugs the folder out of Sara’s hands but offers her back a photo, “keep this to show your girls.”

“Thanks.” Sara examines the affable, almost goofy, but no less handsome face in the photo.

“I should head back…” Mila’s got her jacket back on, bag hanging from her shoulder, but hesitates next to the table.

Sara’s hand snaps up, grabbing Mila’s jacket and dragging her down into a kiss. Mila breathes out a startled sound against her lips before kissing her back, one arm twining around her neck. Sara snakes her arm under the jacket and around her waist to splay her hand on the sheer lace covering Mila’s back; it would be so, so easy to pull her down into her lap, but… But maybe she’s enjoying the tease.

She pulls away, kissing just next to Mila’s mouth while she sweeps her fingers up her back. “Next time you come, wear this.”

There’s a delicious shakiness to Mila’s breath against her cheek. Mila noses against her to find her lips again. “ _ Only _ this?”

Sara skims her hand down to grab her ass. “Just wear something easier to take off than last time.”

Mila giggles, drawing away. “Got it.” Her hand lingers on Sara’s shoulder, slipping down the outside of her arm as she steps away. “Take care.”

“You too,” Sara says, lifting her coffee to her lips.

The door clacks shut, and she’s left with silence and the face in the photograph staring smugly back at her.

* * *

 

Yuri doesn’t need to check the address again: there’s a thick muffled bass beat that lets him know he’s found the right place. He clomps down a short flight of steps and glares at the bouncer until the man rolls his eyes and repeats the cover fee in English. Probably wouldn’t’ve had to shell out if he’d come earlier. But he didn’t want to see too eager.

With any luck, Otabek’s set will be long over and he can just go home with his pride in tact.

He dodges a few people, finding a space to lean against the back wall. This place is busier than the last venue, and the people seem more cool than sad weirdo. Yuri even has the passing thought that if he could speak a lick of Japanese, he might get along with some of them. High priority on his list of phrases to learn: where did you find that rad shirt.

He’s shaken out of his people-watching by some movement up on the stage--the next act coming on. And, of course, it’s Otabek.

Yuri glances away immediately, but finds himself watching out of the corner of his eye. Otabek does some kind of casual hug-handclasp with the previous DJ, greeting her with about as close to a smile as Yuri’s ever seen on him. They seem to chat amiably as he opens a laptop and she continues bobbing in time with the pounding music.

Yuri notices his face pinching into a nasty scowl.  _ If he was so keen on me coming, why’s he not looking for me? _

The woman slaps Otabek’s shoulder as her music fades into his.

_ Now. Look for me now. _

But Otabek’s eyes are fixed on the sound equipment with a singular focus that Yuri had been too preoccupied to notice the last time. He gets the feeling that whatever Otabek does, he gives it his all.

It’s different music this time, rougher but also more melodic, and the crowd is eating it up. Despite his intent to play it cool, Yuri finds himself shifting slightly with the beat, eyes falling shut. He could’ve skated to something like this. Yakov would’ve had a fit, probably, but it would’ve been more than worth it.

Otabek doesn’t fucking look at him once during the whole set.

Yuri fumes while he watches him handoff (less familiarly) to the next guy. And then just as he’s ready to storm out, fucking Otabek looks straight at him like he’s know where he was this whole time and gives him this casual quick wave and then disappears into the back.

Yuri kicks over an (unoccupied) bar table, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

The night air bites at his face and fingers, but not enough to cool the blood rushing in his veins. The brisk walk to the station isn’t helping either, just gives him time to work himself into a full-on fury, though at what, exactly, he’s not entirely sure.

He stops with the fluorescent station lights reaching for the toes of his boots.  _ I’m gonna go back there and fucking. I don’t know. Ask that guy what the hell is his  _ problem?

By the time he’s made it within a block of the place, he still hasn’t come up with anything more eloquent or threatening than that, but he’s fucking  _ determined _ and he’s going to--

Shouts.

Sound of a scuffle.

Every nerve in his body goes on alert but he keeps his body loose and ready as he edges up to the mouth of an alley.

Six people. One of them shoves the person at the centre, snapping out something that makes the others laugh. Another grabs the back collar of his jacket, yanks him off balance, yelling something in a sing-song like they’re in some playground brawl.

Just some dumb fight. Not his business. He’s a sneak and a spy, not a superhero.

Except the person in the middle, the person now raising tense fists and forearms in front of his face with a grim look like he’s been here before, is goddamn Otabek.

Yuri doesn’t wait for the first punch to land. He introduces himself with a quick kick to the back of one guy’s knee, giving the next one a knee to the stomach when he turns to see what’s happening. Momentum off, not hard enough, the guy’s stunned but not down.

The guy he’s thinking of as the ringleader rounds on him, spitting out something he’s sure would be a nasty insult if he could understand a word of it. Yuri bares his teeth and slams a fist into his solar plexus.

“Run!” he shouts in Russian. Protracted fights are not for him. Soon as Otabek’s got some distance, he’s out of here too.

Someone’s fist cracks against his jaw.

Probably hurt the guy more than it hurt him, but he’s still thrown off for a fraction of a second. But muscles take over and he’s grabbing the outflung arm and yanking the guy behind him. Leaves him with three behind. Not ideal. If he breaks away, he’ll be leading them after Otabek. He stomps a heel down on one guy’s foot, feeling something crunch. The guy doubles over and Yuri grabs the back of his jacket and flings him back at the other three.

The first he knows about the knife is impact against his side and then the sound of his jacket ripping. He rounds on the asshole. It’s not much of anything, didn’t even pierce his skin, but it changes the game and the fucker knows it. Vaguely he registers one of the guys at the back on the phone.

And the sound of an engine.

The last guy behind him yelps out something, stumbling backwards. Yuri whirls to see Otabek on a motorcycle, pulling off some movie stunt skid. Before he can say anything, a helmet hits him square in the chest.

“Get on!”

He hesitates. Whether it’s the blood still boiling in his veins or some half-formed ill-timed  _ what does this mean _ , he can’t say.

“Listen! Get  _ on! _ ”

The rising wail of sirens finally registers. Yuri slaps the helmet down on his head and vaults onto the back of the bike. Trusting him to grab hold, Otabek speeds out of the alleyway.


End file.
